Transit umbra, lux permanet
by Inkblot0Blue
Summary: In the weeks following Simon Blackquill's release and Phantom's detainment, a mysterious organisation known as SEIL steps in to call for the spy's extradition. The Prosecutors' Office and Interpol agree to collaborate to solve a series of international mysteries and figure out Phantom's identity and origin. But some things are best left alone, unsolved. [Full summary inside.]
1. 0: Prologue

**Full summary:** The UR-1 retrial was only a stepping stone for what would become a significantly more complex battle, on personal and professional levels for those who had become involved in it. In the weeks following Simon Blackquill's release and Phantom's detainment, a mysterious organisation known as SEIL steps in to call for the spy's extradition. The Prosecutors' Office and Interpol agree to collaborate to solve a series of international mysteries and figure out Phantom's identity and origin. But some things are best left alone, unsolved, as they race against time to salvage the truth lain in the past.

 **Author's Note:** Just to note, I write in standard British English so where applicable, some spellings may differ from what you may see in-game or in American English, and I'll be using metric units too.

I'd also briefly like to note that any feedback is appreciated. I'm aware this is quite a niche story, so any constructive criticism or comments would be helpful. I've not embarked on such a project as this before, to extend canon and write a multi-chapter story of this calibre. If not in review format, then feel free to drop me a PM - I do like hearing what my readers think. Thank you, and enjoy reading!

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

Let me tell you a little story to start off with. I admit...it is a little jarring listening to a story from a man in a mask. But nevertheless.

 _You can hear them squawk into the depths of night, squawking about and their claws, talons, are clattering about on windowpanes, and it doesn't really sound like rainfall, does it?_

 _tak tak tak_

 _No, that isn't the sound of rainfall. But can you see the geysers, shooting jets of water out into the darkness of the night, spraying all of the country? Can you hear the lava softly bubble and squeak? Hold on now, there's the pounding of feet, and there lands the water onto the soil. Is it not meant to sound like a stamp?_

 _Can you hear the trill and the lilt and low blow of a horn? Is it a train? But trains don't run this late. And they squeak when the wheels scream, wanting to halt themselves on the iron tracks that confine them forever. Your whole life is nothing but a track, but you can't switch it. Only the conductor does._

 _Who's the conductor?_

 _It's the man in the moon._

 _You can see him on hazy evenings. Why does he hide his face so - is the disfigurement, the slaughter and the maiming and murdering of humans so much to bear? Is that why he is imprinted onto the rocky and cold terrain and slowly his face is chipped away at with a chisel every thirty days?_

 _What pain he must feel! But I suppose such pain as that is meagre in comparison to scorching deserts, bodies blown to pieces and artefacts destroyed into the sunset. Must you destroy such heritage, name it to scripture and bleed and bleed and bleed away._

 _Bleed dry._

 _And still the cogs turn, trees fall into line and fall onto the ground and here come the blazing torches and the grass screams. But I don't think grass screams. It shrivels; dies into the ground, chlorophyll seeping out of open wounds. Blood, must it be so red?_

 _The man in the clouds is worse than the man in the moon, sitting on his throne upon seven skies bleeding you dry. The volcano speaks a little, spews a little more and then spits its saliva onto the world; it trickles down like saliva dribbling from a child's chin, down slopes and onto the grass. Chlorophyll out again. Shrivelling up._

 _Ah the inevitability of the end of life! When shall we meet, upon the hearth and scream. Phonology dies on the tongue. Can you formulate the sounds your mind reads...could you replicate it? 'ph' and 'th' and 'd' and 'g'. Phi and theta and delta and gamma and out the open door they go, onto the mud track, somewhere near a cliff and seven seas and seven skies._

 _He still sits on his throne. His eyes don't bore holes into the world he's created._

 _In the sea of papers enisled, they swim by you, there over there in the pit of uncanny darkness – there lies a question. What have you done? Why, it is held in the simple midnight blue beauty of the night and over there upon the hearth scream out phonetics in gruff guttural voices and the way you loop you letters tells of a little Norse boy, lost at sea, midnight blue swallowing him up._

 _Must it do so?…So savagely might the mind scream in retaliation? Oh, what is a silly organ, an age-old processor with its rusted gears and monotonous and horrendously repetitive taps, going to do about the matter at hand?_

 _And out on a boat lies a fat little man, ear lobes stretched down to pool at his feet. Little man chortles, with his body rumbling – it laughs too. He speaks, mumbles with a lazy low squeaky voice, that perhaps the seven skies will open up soon. When will the heavens let up, he complains, the clouds are shut out to his mortal being._

 _It is midnight blue again._

If you're hearing this, then we're probably already dead. Ceased to exist. Gone like a puff of smoke.

How many of us are there? Millions. We're everywhere. You just can't see us. Y'see, we're like atoms; we're known to be there but we're invisible. And y'know what they say - everything is made up of atoms. You are. I am. We are...We _were_.

The world has changed; there is no longer a society which governs free will. Then again, what is free will when there is determinism? So many of us in philosophy have argued over free will versus determinism. But we're not quite sure.

You want a name? I'll give you a name. I'm only known by the name that was given to me by highly-classified intelligence documents, the Secret Service and some civil servants:

 **Phantom.**

It's pathetic. It doesn't represent me.

But this mask I wear... it represents skill and talent. That is what a Noh mask is and...I must admit, I've had the skill in evading society for many a year and slipping under the radar of my own organisation.

But I have always performed my actions with the form of _kabu-isshin_ , in total unity with myself and my halves. But you wouldn't know that would you? How weak-willed.

There is also _myo_ ; I am totally my persona. So how can you tell I'm not method acting right now? How can you tell this isn't simply one of my...identities?

Oh, you want my actual name? But if I were to give you that, then you'd ask for my appearance. The truth is, I don't have one. I don't know what my face looks like and I'm terrible at remembering faces in my mind. I think...I think I had facial reconstruction surgery but the true extent of that is...well, the details are a little hazy to me. I haven't seen my face in...in many a year gone by.

My face, memories, personality, beliefs, emotions, and soul... I left them all behind. I have no... "self." I am no one. I am nothing but an endless abyss.

But I do know I am not a bad guy. Yes, perhaps I stole state secrets but...if everyone is stealing everyone else's secrets then doesn't that make us all so morally corrupt? You can't claim you're good when you cause damage and destruction. You reap what you sow; you stole secrets from us, we'll take them back.

I'm sure they'll find me someday...if they haven't already done away with me. Y'see, I'm easily discarded like trash. I'm a simple name on a file in a vault somewhere on this globe. So many vaults...so many secrets.

This establishment...my former employment...it should not exist. On records in some vaults it does but truly it shouldn't. It sounds a little strange, no?

But I am a loyal lapdog, just like my pathetic former identity. What was his name? Ah yes! Bobby Fulbright. Well like him, with fierce loyalty and a sense of justice I must say...I will not divulge information at this present moment of who we are or rather... _were_.

But I digress. I have one thing to say before I am robbed of my existence on this hallowed earth. The old must die to make way for the new. That sounds so simple, doesn't it? And yet...it's not working.

I implore you, citizens of and on this globe, to see reason: we must destroy the forces of the old world to pave way for the new one.

And with that, I leave you. Ta-ta! Cheerio!


	2. 1: Instigation

**Chapter 1: Instigation**

* * *

 **January 10, 2028**

* * *

The sounds of the airplane engine dying down snapped a rather tired — it had been a twelve hour flight from Frankfurt, after all — Franziska von Karma out of her reverie as she picked up her belongings and set foot outside the carrier, high heeled boots clacking noisily on the surface. Her black coat hugged her figure as the harsh wind whipped her up. She grumbled. How it was that California could have the harshest sunlight in January when its atmosphere was biting escaped her. At least it beat the subzero temperatures in Munich. One foot at a time, she casually took her time to go down the stairs. Franziska von Karma was relaxed in her movements, nothing occupying her thoughts.

The quick bus ride to Border Control, and the relative ease of finding her baggage also surprised her. She hadn't been back to Los Angeles in at least two years, so it was quite possible LAX had managed to become more efficient in the time she'd been away. Whether it was related to some scathing remarks she had left in some travel review, or just down to management chopping and changing, she did not know.

But what she did know, was that she recognised the man greeting her at the Arrivals section, and she smirked. Shi-Long Lang looked the same as ever, dressed in a simple dark suit and tie, with his dragon-emblazoned jacket draped over his shoulders. His light brown hair was pushed back and rested below his chin.

As she approached him, the corners of his lips turned upwards in a smirk. He greeted her with a kiss to the cheek. "Long time no see."

"Indeed, Shi-Long Lang. When was it last?"

"2026 in Aarhus. We'd just finished that case of bioterrorism," he answered, taking her bag and ushering her outside to the car park.

"What a long-winded case that was," she sighed in recollection, throwing him an exasperated look. "You know I bloody hate negotiations."

Lang chuckled. "That I do know," he said, as they reached the spot where the car was parked. He unlocked the car and opened the passenger door for her, and then gestured at her with an upward nod of the head. "Your hair suits you."

At his words, she peered at her face in its reflection in the car window, running a hand through the pixie cut, shaved on one side and hanging on the other. "Thank you. It's far more practical to manage on a daily basis."

"I can imagine." he remarked, as he set about fitting her suitcase into the boot and slamming it shut. Then he checked his watch. Two in the afternoon. Franziska had got into her seat and strapped herself in. "Your brother will be wondering where you are."

He got in beside her in the driver's seat, slamming the car door shut. Franziska was ridding herself of her coat, revealing a black halter jumpsuit. On her belt, her coiled whip was strapped in like an accessory. "Miles will never stop worrying. It's just in his nature."

He grinned at her. "Then I guess we can just be late to the party to irritate Mr Prosecutor."

She gave him a small, knowing smile, before he turned the ignition, letting the engine purr to life, and pulled out of the car park.

* * *

Miles Edgeworth prided himself on many things. One of those things was his ability to pick out individual colleagues for their potential to do well and seeing them succeed at what they did best, based on his core values of efficiency, hard work and loyalty.

Already nearly nine years ago now, he had seen potential in young Simon Blackquill when he had first introduced himself to him, sporting his short black hair; the curly locks falling into place neatly. He remembered their first conversation in vivid detail, wherein Blackquill had bowed and handed him a business card and requested to place his Japanese swords on display in his office's glass cabinet. Miles, having found this request highly amusing, permitted him to do so, along the lines of "if it brings you calm, then so be it". Who was he to critique this young man? From then on, he managed, albeit briefly, to build a rapport with Blackquill and see him at work. A bright young man, so full of ambition and perfectly capable of achieving his full potential.

That is, before Simon was incarcerated just shy of a year after their first encounter. He had visited him in prison the day after they had arrested him for his mentor's murder not as a prosecutor but rather, as a concerned individual. There was nothing much he could do for him at the time, and he had never really suspected Blackquill in the same manner he had suspected himself when he had been on the other side of the glass. But it was not his place to push Blackquill into speaking. Nevertheless, he vowed to keep a close eye on this now-silent, harrowed individual.

He watched as Blackquill had implicated himself in the murder of his mentor — deliberately testifying gruesome details and arguing with the defence to shatter the notion of him being anything but a cruel murderer — and he mourned the loss of a strong individual, replaced by a cold facade that greeted him in subsequent meetings. Despite this...new shell that had become Blackquill, Miles intended to keep his vow, and he intended to keep Blackquill stimulated with new information and sources on the Phantom matter, and in doing so, he could see his colleague tackle the matter with renewed vigour.

He could remember the way Blackquill's eyes flickered when he announced his decision to reinstate his position as a prosecuting attorney, at least from prison and the quiet "Thank you, sir," that had quietly passed his lips.

And the second "Thank you, sir," in the form of a nod of acknowledgement at the dilapidated noodle stand where he had his first meal after his acquittal. Yes, Miles could safely say he was proud and relieved to see Blackquill finally come out of this whole ordeal alive. Dare he say, excited? Yes, he was excited to be working with Blackquill again – their work nine years ago cut short by those constraints.

After that dinner they had walked together around the blocking. It gave Blackquill a chance to stretch his legs after standing in court all day with very few breaks.

"Do you have a place to accommodate you?" Miles had asked, once again the concerned individual.

Simon nodded."My sister's living quarters shall be suitable for me."

"Good. I'd say, after the ordeal of today, a warm bed will be more than welcoming. You've deserved your rest," said Miles, smiling warmly at his colleague.

Blackquill nodded. It was understandable that he'd want to say nothing.

"I don't want to see you in work tomorrow." He added, licking his dry lips. Noting Simon's confused expression, he elaborated, "You need your rest and I'm formally requesting that you take a leave of absence until you feel more at home with yourself and are ready to get back to work."

"Hm," was all Simon said, a pensive expression on his face.

"Please, do not worry about the Phantom situation; it'll still be there for you to pursue when you return," Miles reassured.

At those words, he sensed Simon's shoulders tense before he relaxed them again and sighed. "I shall accept your proposition then. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Consider it a Christmas gift of sorts."

The two men were back at the stand by the time their conversation had drawn to a close. "I wish you a good evening. I'll see you soon."

As Blackquill made his way to Athena who was waiting to walk him home, he followed with the greeting. "And you too, sir," then pausing, he added. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, indeed."

That had been three weeks now. The office had closed for Christmas and was back in full swing on January the 2nd. Miles found himself sorting through all the paperwork for Simon's exoneration and other legal affairs over the break. He took the 28th off out of remembrance but continued to work tirelessly. Today, however, presented him with a different sort of work day; a gala later tonight and a memo from Lang that had come in a week ago — "Need to discuss spy situation" — meant that he would be spending this morning and afternoon organising himself, rather than filing any new paperwork.

He had, however, managed to put in some time for a short meeting. The knocking of the door signalled as much and he let out a short "Come in." The door opened. Blackquill entered and Miles observed him over the rim of his glasses. He looked less tired; the circles under his eyes had slightly faded. His hair was still unkempt, but he was somehow a little more presentable, in his clean suit with his surcoat placed on the coat rack.

Edgeworth rose from his seat. "Good morning, Blackquill."

"Good morning, Edgeworth-dono."

"Please, take a seat," he said, gesturing at the sofa. "Tea?"

"Could I perhaps request matcha?"

"I certainly have some. It is a favourite of mine," Simon looked on as he steeped the tea, mixing the matcha powder with the bamboo brush. Then Miles walked over to him with a small tray and set it down, before taking his own seat opposite Simon.

"How have you been these last few weeks?" he asked, taking a sip of his tea.

Simon furrowed his eyebrows. "As well as I can be," he started, picking up his cup of matcha, studying it. "I've signed over Aura's flat into my name, so I have official accommodation now."

"Good. Have you seen to her case?"

"Justice-dono managed to take on her case just after the holiday period."

"And?"

"Three years at a minimum-security correctional facility."

"I see," nodded Miles. "That's good."

Another sip, and another look at Simon over the rim of his glasses. "On another note, how have you been handling the press?"

A hesitant sigh and Miles saw that Simon had faced away from him. "Frankly not as well as I could be. My...my reputation precedes me."

Seeing as Blackquill wasn't comfortable with elaborating further, he took over, "Well, my advice on such matters would be to ignore any press. Be it reporters or emails. It has served me well."

"...I see."

"But I don't expect it'll affect your work. You've much to offer, and I'm looking forward to seeing your performance in and outside of court."

At that, Simon lowered his head. Miles had finished his tea, and was pouring himself a second cup. His own cup was nearly finished. It was good matcha tea.

"If I may, sir," started Simon, after a few moments had passed between them.

"Yes?"

"I would like to offer my services in the Phantom case."

Miles leaned back in his seat, mulling over the proposition in his head. An understandable one, given that he had been an important asset in the last few years. Perhaps an opportunity for Blackquill to showcase how he worked now? So Miles nodded.

"Well, it is convenient of you to mention this." he set his teacup down. "Tonight I'm meeting with some Interpol colleagues to discuss the matter. You are most welcome to introduce yourself to them."

A small smirk formulated on Blackquill's lips. "I shall be honoured to."

"Good. The meeting is being held at the Gatewater Hotel's Conference Hall. I've arranged for it to coincide with the Prosecutor's Convention. It starts at six."

Simon drank the remains of the matcha. "I shall be prompt then."

"But seeing as this is also your first day back and you appear to be in top form, I don't see why you can't start setting yourself up," Simon tilted his head, as his superior moved to the desk where he plucked out a small key and handed it to him. "Room 1009."

He nodded to this, feeling the cold metal in his hand, and stood up, picking his coat off the rack. "Until this evening, Edgeworth-dono. Thank you." he said as he exited the office, leaving Miles to clear away the tea.

* * *

Simon spent the remainder of his day setting up his office. It was already equipped with standard things: desk; desktop computer; filing cabinets; safe; and a wall bookcase unit. So, with that in mind, he had called for the help of a legal aide to retrieve his possessions from the storage facility Aura had used to store his belongings following his incarceration; some decorative katanas, hanging scrolls, Japanese knick-knacks and Taka's perch. This would make the office seem more like his.

He set about figuring out where to place his few possessions. The katanas were to go on the cabinets below the window; the hanging scrolls would be above the leather sofa he had just ordered to come on Friday; and his little netsuke and fukudaruma would sit on the along the shelves of his large bookcase unit.

In the middle of all his rearranging, he opened the window to air out the room and to anticipate his feathered companion's arrival. He felt the cool air on his face. It felt nice and fresh, unlike the stale prison air he'd grown accustomed to. This was something he could appreciate. He made a mental note to visit his sister soon; he had only managed to visit her twice since the retrial, but now that she was incarcerated, his visits ought to be more frequent.

On more administrative matters, Simon managed to set up his office email and order a new batch of business cards. It had been near a decade since he had used business cards and he wondered just how much they were in use today. It didn't hurt to be polite and he was sure they'd come in use tonight at the meeting with the Interpol handlers. In any case, he was glad to back at work; he could focus on cases again.

By five p.m. he had set his workspace up, feeling satisfied with himself. It was nice to take a day to rearranging his space and his own mind, switching it back into work mode. He took one last look around and nodded to himself. All in order. Then he picked up his surcoat and left the office to find a taxi to take him to the venue.

* * *

The conference hall at Gatewater wasn't anything special, which is why it made for a popular venue for conferences and conventions such as the one held today. It was simply decorated, with cream walls and wooden floorboards. Some round tables and chairs had been set up — a dinner was to be served later, for those that had requested it — around the room, with a lectern set up at the far end of the room on the raised platform. To the side of the lectern, a string quartet was playing Schubert.

By the time Franziska had arrived, it was already quite crowded, with people she didn't recognise in suits mingling with each other over glasses of champagne and canapes. She wouldn't have been this late had her brother not picked the time to coincide with rush-hour traffic. At the same time, she couldn't fault him: an earlier start meant an earlier departure, which she wouldn't mind at all.

She checked her watch. Only five to six.

"Bored already?" remarked the deep voice from behind her. Lang had returned from the bathroom.

"I don't normally go to these events."

"True, you don't." Lang confirmed. "But chin up, it's your baby brother who's running the show."

Franziska surveyed her surroundings again. No, she still didn't see anyone she recognised. Clearly Miles was also running late. "I suppose you have a point there," she replied.

"It should be starting soon enough anyway," said Lang, and then gesturing at their surroundings, added, "I'll go get you some champagne."

By the time Lang had returned with two glasses of champagne, the lights had dimmed and the conversations around her had drawn to a lull, with some people trying to get their last words in. The string quartet had left the podium. Well, she mused, their renditions of Schubert weren't that good anyway.

She took the glass from Lang, as her brother emerged from the crowd. She gave him a once-over; Miles Edgeworth was dressed differently; Miles Edgeworth wore glasses now; and Miles Edgeworth was smiling.

Clearly something had changed in Los Angeles in the last few years. Well, she had better listen to what he had to say. Maybe his manner of speech had changed while they were at it.

She watched as her brother set himself up on the lectern, tapping the microphone to test it was working, and adjusting his glasses before he spoke. "Ladies and gentlemen, it is a pleasure to welcome you to the thirty-eighth annual prosecutorial convention…"

Franziska breathed a sigh of relief. At least his mannerisms hadn't changed.

"...In this last year, much has been done to tackle the issues we currently face in the legal world. I am pleased to say that within Los Angeles alone we have halved corruption, false conviction rates are at an all-time low, and the Jurist system has passed its preliminary test." Miles paused for a moment, letting his eyes survey the room in front of him. "...And last but not least, The State of California has agreed to a statewide legal reform. This should ensure that the Dark Age of the Law shall come to a close in the coming years."

Applause rang out. She and Lang shared confused glances; Franziska hadn't really heard of this so-called "Dark Age of the Law" before. But from what she surmised it seemed to refer to the anarchy that constituted the last seven years. She had read, of course, of Phoenix Wright's disbarment and subsequently of Kristoph Gavin's alleged forgeries and his execution in early 2027. But beyond that...the term escaped her. Nevertheless, if that was what Miles Edgeworth had decided to tackle in his term of as Chief Prosecutor, then so be it. It was about time.

"...There remains a lot to be done in this next year, but I, for one, am looking forward to working with you all. Let us have another productive year."

The second round of applause signalled that the speech had ended. The lights were turned up again, brightening up the room again. Lang nodded his head at Edgeworth, who was being accosted at every turn with platitudes.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"No," she agreed, watching the crowd. Her brother had stopped to talk to a tall, mangy-looking man. "He's not such a fool as he seems at times."

Lang chuckled. "Well, he has certainly grown up since I last saw him."

Her brother and the man were now walking towards them. The string quartet had started again; it was Beethoven this time. "Indeed."

Miles smiled warmly when he approached them. "Agent Lang, Franziska, it is good to see you again."

Lang nodded in acknowledgement. "You, too, Chief Prosecutor." and Franziska smirked, "Good evening to you too, Little Brother. Not a bad speech you gave."

"But not perfect?" he teased.

"No. Perfection does not matter these days."

"Oh," Miles had raised his eyebrows. "I see then that you have given up that ideal. I'm glad."

Franziska harrumphed. "Well anyway, who is that man standing behind you looking so glum?"

At that, Miles chuckled, sidestepping to allow the man through into their circle. "This is Simon Blackquill. Notoriously known for having plunged the legal world into the Dark Age of Law."

Lang gave Blackquill a once-over, eyebrows furrowed. "What did you do?"

Simon smirked. "I murdered my mentor."

Lang's face relaxed. "Nah, you didn't. Stop playing games with us, Edgeworth." he pointed at Simon. "You think I don't know this guy? He's helped us find that Phantom bastard."

Lang clapped a hand on Blackquill's shoulder. "Good on you, Blackquill. I'm Shi-Long Lang, the name you saw on the security clearances."

"Thank you," he muttered. "Your contributions did not go unnoticed."

"And I'm Franziska von Karma. I am an international prosecutor working alongside Interpol."

Simon nodded in acknowledgement. "I was witness to some of your trials as a law student, von Karma-dono. I admired your performance."

At those words, Franziska's face relaxed into a smirk. She was going to like this Simon Blackquill character.

At this point Edgeworth interjected. "Seeing as we're all here, I think this gives us the perfect opportunity to discuss your memo, Agent Lang. Simon Blackquill would like to offer his services in the Phantom investigation."

Lang nodded, face once more serious. "I don't see a problem with that. Would be good to have you on the team." Then he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have to say, we haven't gotten anywhere with the guy. Just sits in his cell. Doesn't say anything."

"Will you be on the taskforce?" asked Edgeworth.

"Yeah, right now we're just figuring things out. Usually he'd be out of our hair, 'cause he'd be sent back to where he came from. But Interpol doesn't have a record on who he is, so we're thinking of setting up some interrogations to ask him. Protocol and all that."

"That is a fair assessment to make," said Miles. "So you will be in Los Angeles for however long it'll take you to determine Phantom's origins?"

"That's the idea. Me and her both," he confirmed, gesturing towards Franziska.

"I doubt it will be an easy feat to accomplish, Lang-dono," remarked Blackquill, raising his eyebrows.

"Yeah, well," he shrugged. "Lang Zi says: the law is hard but it is the law. We'll get to the bottom of it."

At that, Lang checked the time on his watch. It was half-past seven. "I gotta go now. Conference call from Lyon in about an hour."

With their goodbyes said, the group dispersed. Lang went to hail a cab, and the siblings began to talk amongst themselves. Simon, happy with the way things had turned out, saw no reason to remain. He didn't care for alcohol or niblets of food. He decided to go home.

When he stepped out of the hotel, it was nearly dark outside, with the clouds shifting their murky grey gradients to a more suitable midnight blue. No stars would appear, given the city's notorious levels of light pollution but again, he could appreciate the calm feeling night gave him on his walk to the bus stop.

For the first time in a long time, Simon didn't feel the need to mull over events in his head. Or even to think, for that matter.

It had been a good first day at work.


	3. 2: Rigor Mortis

**Chapter 2: Rigor Mortis**

* * *

 **January 17, 2028**

* * *

In the past week, Simon found himself waking up earlier with each day, meeting Athena Cykes for a coffee downtown after her morning run, catching up with her regarding the latest developments in the Wright Anything Agency. In those meetings, he had learnt that Apollo wanted to go into family law, that Wright had spent Christmas up in the mountains with old friends, and that she had just come back from visiting family in France. She didn't have to divulge this information to him, but seven years away locked up in a cell had presumably led her to believe that Simon had not much company beyond Taka and his superior.

She was right of course, and he didn't mind their conversations. They were alright and they passed the time he would have spent faffing about in his spartan accommodation. It at least set him up in a somewhat good mood and whenever he walked into his newly refurbished office, he was met with a sense of tranquility and willingness to work hard, no doubt aided by the tea he had drunk in the morning and his conversation with the young lawyer.

It was a Tuesday today, the second day in the working week and Taka had just flown in, no doubt wondering about his breakfast. He sat patiently on the windowsill as Simon set down his satchel onto his new sofa, procuring a small paper bag of beef jerky. He had spent his weekend relearning the recipe in Aura's — no — _his_ kitchen and concluded that his batch would have to wait a couple of months before Taka could give an opinion on it and so the current batch he had in his hand was from the deli across the street that often provided sandwiches for the office at lunchtime.

He tore off a strip and gave it to the bird who munched on it happily.

"It seems that this establishment is reputable. I shall purchase from them again if you so desire." He muttered to the bird, stroking his plumage. "We also must rid of you of that striped kerchief. Perhaps a lighter colour would be more to your taste."

Taka cawed in response. Feeling satisfied with his breakfast and the attention he received, he spread his wings, and set off out of the window. Simon wondered whether the bird still resided near the courthouse. He hadn't been there in near a month now.

He spent the majority of his first hour today working on answering many emails, ignoring the requests for interviews by reporters and television crews. His superior's advice had been working this far; he selected all the media emails and dragged them into the trash folder. Sorted.

It was ten in the morning when he heard a timid knock on his door. He raised his eyebrows. "Enter."

A young legal aide with mousy brown hair entered, looking thoroughly timid. "There's a memo for you from the Chief Prosecutor," she squeaked out.

"Pray tell, why could he not relay it through his secretary?"

"He is out on business. And she asked me to hand it to you."

Blackquill knitted his eyebrows at that statement; Miles Edgeworth rarely went out on business, at least not since his appointment as chief prosecutor. He wondered somehow whether it was related to the Phantom matter. But Edgeworth had said he would keep him informed if anything happened there, so he didn't concern himself too much with this. If his superior had to say anything then he would inform him at the appropriate time. He dismissed the aide and took the memo and file.

"I am assigning you to this for the time being - Miles Edgeworth." He took a look at the case file and frowned. It was a preliminary report of the murder of an unidentified man in the Westlake neighbourhood.

* * *

The crime scene wasn't far from the office's location in Downtown LA, in MacArthur Park.

MacArthur Park wasn't exactly known for its welcome atmosphere, notorious for its gang shootouts in decades past, but it had clearly seen better days. In the last few years, Westlake had emerged as a sleazy, industrial part of the city that was quietly and unhurriedly morphing into a ghost zone; abandoned buildings with broken glass windows and crude spray-painted messages on chalky-white walls. The park was littered with patches of yellow grass from summers past.

Naked trees stuck out like lone and damp matchsticks; the limbs of the trees, the branches, were like spider legs, spindly and short. The calm but bitter breeze cut at Simon through the layers of clothing he wore. He clenched one pale fist in attempt to poorly contain the warmth, only to unclench it seconds later. He sharply inhaled the dirty air and exhaled slowly, his breath mingled with the air particles in the form of thick mist.

He had visited this place before, one time when it wasn't swarming with investigators combing the grass and gravel for specks of data and bagging suspicious-looking items, regardless of their size. He had visited it one time when he was younger, before the curtain rose and revealed the ugliness of murder, before he spent his nights on paper-thin mattresses. It had been a quick trip with his sister to meet Dr Cykes for the first time for lunch at a restaurant not so far from here. It had ended, if he recalled correctly, in surreal awkwardness for the three of them.

An ill-assorted woman in a sterile-white lab coat, dark chinos and plain white flats approached him from behind the police tape. He produced his prosecutor's badge; it gleamed in the cloudy atmosphere. "I apologise for appearing early but Edgeworth-dono requested my presence here, Detective…?"

Her face lit up at the mention of his superior. "Skye. Ema Skye." She responded, lifting the police tape to allow him access. She gave him a searching look. "You're that jailbird prosecutor that just got released, right?"

His body became stiff at her reference of him. "Yes."

She nodded. "I heard about Fulbright, by the way. I'm sorry."

"Yes, well…" he offered her a wan smile. _I didn't know him._

"He was a cool guy. Didn't mind helping me out sometimes," she said, guiding him to the site. "Anyway, we got this call at six this morning. A lorry driver on his break found the guy."

Simon nodded, surveying his surroundings. A vandalised and abandoned shopping centre stood several hundred metres away from the green patches that the forensics specialists were currently going over with their toothed combs, tweezers and luminol bottles.

"Well, here he is." Skye pointed out a human body lying in a patch of dry grass with her index finger.

The simple-clothed body of a man was laid out like a grotesque mannequin, limbs awkwardly splayed out. A thin, dry stream of blood was located around the mouth and flies gathered around one entry wound; the stomach. Another gash was found on the chest. Waxy skin and damp brown hair. Terrified dark brown eyes stared upwards at the concrete sky.

Blackquill looked away from the sight before him, swallowing away his own recollection of discovering a body. He saw Skye approach him again, leaving behind men cloaked in white jumpsuits.

"The technicians had problems getting this out of his right hand. Rigor mortis, they said."

She held up an evidence bag containing a small green microchip. There were flecks of copper-red blood on the casing.

"Is there a likelihood of grasping what is on the microchip?"

"I'll get it sent down to the lab later today, but in the meantime the coroner'll be busy performing the autopsy - I'll check in on that later this afternoon. Should be fairly obvious what went down here; foul play or a mugging. I'll get some of the officers to round up any witnesses and people to ID the vic."

Blackquill nodded in reply, registering her words. He turned around so that his back faced her. "Good. You can apprise me of the latest discoveries through the office telephone, Biscuits."

Ema scoffed, an amused expression on her face. "Biscuits?" she echoed.

Simon nodded. "One would be a fool not to recognise those commercial processed snacks that you love so much."

Ema checked her bag. Sure enough, a bulging packet of snackoos was preventing the bag from closing properly. "Oh, these? They're called snackoos. You want one?"

Simon shook his head. "No, thank you, Detective."

She snorted, zipping up her back. "Suit yourself. You're a change from that glimmerous fop. But a nice change."

Then she offered, "How about I get you some tea? I can bring it over later."

"I would not mind."

"Cool, see you later then, Mr Snark."

Simon threw a casual glance over his shoulder. "I can tolerate that nickname. I will see you later then."

* * *

After processing the crime scene and making notes, Ema was quick to get back to the precinct for the briefing and some lunch. Then, as protocol would have it, a call from the coroner to meet her. Ema grinned; this was the best part of her day when she got landed with a murder case.

The police morgue was a large rectangular room adjacent to the laboratory in the basement of the police HQ. A sterile room with equally sterile fluorescent lighting; a wall of metal fridges to the left; cold stainless steel objects with bodies encased within them. On the right was a glass dividing screen with an overhead light, the fluorescent bulb shining heavily, as though the saturation had been turned up. To the centre, unmissable, were two metal tables. One was currently devoid of corpses and the other one held the body of the victim.

Ema had been here plenty of times of before, but the sickly smell of antiseptic always got to her.

Corrie Nøhr emerged from behind a curtain where one could see an operating table with various utensils adjacent to it in a small container. She was a slim woman in her forties dressed in blue scrubs, hair greying from the top. She met Ema with a smile; crow's feet appearing at the corners of her eyes. "Ema, come in. Good day?" Her accent distinctively North Germanic, as she punctuated emphasis on the second syllables.

"Not really. Loud phone call woke me up and then I got stuck with _that_." She indicated her head at the body, obscured by the white sheet. Had it not been for her surroundings, Ema would've said the corpse looked like someone sleeping in bed with the covers pulled up to the chin.

"Yes, this one was quite a challenge. I'll let you figure this one out." She leaned against one of the metal fridges pressing a hand on her chin, observing the detective with an amused expression.

Ema pulled off the cover, staring at the nude form of the victim. "There's several bruises on the ribs. I'm guessing they're broken. Punctured lung? Foul play?"

"Rigor mortis is still present. He was cold when the witness found him. Been dead at least 7 hours by 6 AM. That makes it...11 PM when he died. There's the blood loss. But why three entry wounds? A frenzy? The bruising on the ankle means that he tried to get away and then got stabbed in the calf.

"But if it was punctured then he would've had about 45 minutes to live so then we take the blood loss into consideration. From three wounds it would've gone down crazily to maybe a minute because of the jugular vein. The punctured lung was not the cause. It happened but the blood loss effectively killed him. Right?"

The coroner nodded, eyes glinting in the bright light as Skye dictated her conclusion.

"So hypothetically, he was attacked by an intruder who stabbed him in the ribs first and the lung got punctured, then as he fled he was slashed in the calf, grabbed again and attacked in the stomach and finally, judging by the bruising on the shoulder was finally slashed in the throat."

Nøhr flashed her a grin. "I knew you'd get it eventually. Here, catch."

An astounded Ema lifted her hand to grab the folder. "Thanks, I owe you one! I'll catch you around later." she said, grinning too as she pushed the metal bar to let herself out. Lab and then over to see Blackquill.

It was two by the time she made it to Blackquill's office, looking thoroughly dishevelled. In her arms she carried several bulky folders, an evidence bag and a plastic glass of green liquid. Simon's eyes followed her as she set down the glass on his desk; she muttered something about it being a green tea milkshake, straightened her back and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

"I thought you might wanna get the preliminary autopsy." Her words were hurried, as though she was out of breath.

The prosecutor rested his chin in his hand, a smirk plastered on his face. "And I thought you were to inform me of developments via the phone, Biscuits."

"Yeah, well, you wouldn't want to receive these gruesome deets on your cell phone. Also, you said you wanted tea."

"Oh?"

Skye dropped a large, baby-blue folder on his desk. Simon opened it, turning the paper-clipped pages, eyeing the cursive handwriting and red arrows around photographs of the crime scene and the body.

"Victim was Jacob Hawthorn, aged forty-two, worked here as a senior high prosecutor in the international division." Ema's finger tapped on a gruesome photo of the deceased male. "There were three entry wounds; one on his stomach, another on his calf and another on his throat. He died from the cut to the jugular vein. Forensics deduced that they were all from one blade, a switchblade maybe, and foul play is suspected judging by the various bruises. It's too soon to say how many people were involved."

"…And the microchip?" He inquired.

She produced a small evidence bag containing the green chip inside, Blackquill peered at it.

"The microchip has zero traces of DNA belonging to anyone other than the vic. I'm gonna get the lab guys to run another check but the data relates to some court cases in Borginia that Hawthorn was handling."

"A murder with ties to the globe. How curious this is indeed." He leaned back in his seat, his eyes never leaving the evidence bag.

"That's what I was thinking but you'd better talk to your colleagues about it. See if anyone knew what he was working on."

"Thank you, Biscuits." and then he added. "Ah, and thank you for the tea."

"No problem. I'll keep you updated then."

"That would be helpful. If I find anything, I shall inform you as well."

Ema nodded, took away the evidence bag resting on his desk and walked out, wishing him a good rest of his day while she was at it.

A small smile creeped up his lips. What was it she had said this morning? That he was a nice change. Well, so was she. He sighed. Then again, what did he know of his investigative partners?

He turned his attention to the "green tea milkshake" she'd bought him. There was a straw with it. He drank some. It wasn't bad all at all. A little too milky for his taste, but there was a hint of the tea there. He would have to ask her where she bought it, so he could return the favour.

Going back to the case at hand, and the advice Skye had left him with, the only clear option that presented itself would be to gain access to Hawthorn's office. Perhaps what was in there would aid in his investigation. Well, he would know that, wouldn't he, what with his own office being raided after Metis' murder.

 _Don't._ He sighed. Yes, that was probably the best course of action for now.

He turned to his office telephone. Beside it was a laminated sheet of numbers to call. That was helpful. He punched the numbers in, and held the phone to his ear.

He swivelled around his seat; it was raining outside. Well, the forensics team had done most of what they could now at the crime scene. Rain always calmed him down.

 _It rained when Metis was murdered._ He closed his eyes, focusing on the rings.

Gentle cracks of thunder sounded outside. He looked back at the desk.

On the eighth ring, the line on the other end picked up. "Hello, Edgeworth-dono?"


	4. 3: Telephone Call

**Chapter 3: Telephone Call**

* * *

 **January 18, 2028**

* * *

At quarter-past eleven, Simon had just hauled in the last evidence box taken from Hawthorn's office, setting it down on the floor with a grunt. He stretched his arms above his head and surveyed his surroundings; piles of paper covered most of the sofa and floor while the boxes sat in a small corner. On each box were the markings of 'International', indicating the scale of the investigation. While most of the files Simon found were in Borginian, he found several English folders. He'd procured a small dictionary from the office library earlier and was ready to begin marking out the important information in red pen.

His call yesterday afternoon had allowed him access into the evidence locker room and to allow the police to seize the victim's belongings, in the hopes of finding something to indicate motive for murder. He now sat cross-legged on the parquet floor, with the bulk of the paperwork, studying the letters on the Borginian files. He had yet to hear from the detective about the documents on the microchip. Right now, sorting through this mound of papers was sure to get him somewhere.

The last time he'd focused so heavily on translating from English to another language was with Japanese as a child. He recalled sitting on the living room sofa after dinner each night, reading manga in Japanese and commenting on the English translations his mother had bought for him; he had consistently discussed the differences in the localisations with the ways of talk and the quirks of the characters. His mother, a linguist in applied Japanese linguistics, found his analyses incredibly interesting much to the chagrin of his sister, tinkering away in her room, and father, an aeronautical engineer.

His childhood wasn't much to talk about. Born to British-Japanese parents and brought up in a bilingual household, Simon often found himself combining his Japanese with his English in the usage of honorifics. His fascination of Japanese medieval history and Victorian English history had led to a development in the way he spoke English and his sense of fashion. He had to admit, it was also his teenage love for the Steel Samurai that developed his interests further, its key themes of good and evil and morality shaping him up for a career in law.

His announcement to attend law school coincided with Aura's coming out. Simon would've described his parents as very tolerant people, loving and caring but also with a hint of tradition. Aura never saw that, often berating them for how conservative they were. This led to many issues within their family unit and Aura cut off ties, taking Simon with her wherein they lived together in a small apartment close to the Space Centre and an hour's drive away from the city centre.

He didn't see them again until four years later when they met him in the detention centre after his incarceration when he was 21. He had an uncomfortable conversation with his father, steely grey eyes and brown hair, who had slammed his fist against the windowpane, insulting him as his mother had wept silently. He was dead to them from then on - "Mother and Father have disowned me, if that's of any use to you," he had relayed to his sister at their next meeting. Whether they left the country or had heard of his acquittal, he didn't know. It was better that they didn't, now that their other child was in prison for a crime related to his. It was best that he forgot his parents.

He picked up the nearest document. It appeared bilingual and less of a hassle to deal with. Simon enjoyed seeing text written in two languages; it comforted him somehow and drew him back into his analytical self, clearing his mind away from the other aspects of the developing case. It was a little hard to get through all the technical jargon but from what he could extract, this particular document was a list of smuggling cases in Borginia. A familiar name appeared on the last entry: "Borginian cocoon case: defense attorney Apollo Justice". He sighed, a hint of disbelief within him: these defense attorneys from the Wright Anything Agency were sure to crop up anywhere where he least expected them to. Typical of them of course. He could understand why Edgeworth found Wright so amusing and frustrating to deal with at times.

A quiet knock on the door sounded just as he was rifling through another set of papers. This time, Edgeworth's secretary, a petite woman, auburn hair up in a bun and glasses framing her face, announced her message.

"Mr Blackquill? The Chief Prosecutor wants to see you. He says it's urgent."

* * *

Aftering knocking and entering, Simon noticed that Edgeworth's office was dark, which was unusual. It wasn't that grey outside, unless storm clouds had suddenly begun to emerge on his way up in the elevator, which they had not. Edgeworth had the curtains half-closed, and Simon's eyes fell onto the people in the room. Clearly the group had been gathered for some important meeting, because he hadn't seen Lang this pensive before. Well, he had only met Lang last week so that was all he had going for him.

Miles Edgeworth was seated on the sofa beside Franziska von Karma, with Shi-Long Lang on the opposite sofa. On the table, a jug of water and some glasses. Beside Lang on the sofa was his laptop and a projector, and the agent was kind enough to shift them onto his lap as Simon sat down.

Now seated, Miles cleared his throat to speak, adjusting his glasses. "I apologise for the abruptness, Mr Blackquill. This is rather a...delicate matter, as you can see."

"Quite alright, Edgeworth-dono." Simon crossed his arms. "I gather it is regarding our mutual friend."

"Yes." confirmed Miles. "Following the retrial where he was shot down, a video began to circulate the internet. It was made by him a day prior to your set execution date, featuring him in the same Noh mask Ms Cykes described in her testimony. It appeared to have been on a private network before being distributed publicly. The media has no doubt caught whiff of it and apparently so did the intelligence services. This prompted a...phone call this morning."

"A phone call?" echoed Simon, brows furrowed.

His question was met with Lang leaning forward in his seat, setting up a recording device on the coffee table. The play button was pressed and a smooth, clipped female voice came through the speakers, distorted by radio static.

"Good morning Chief Prosecutor, this is the Borginian Intelligence Services calling. We gather that one of our agents has been arrested in your country. His name is Erikh Qvinn, better known by the media as Phantom, and our government is calling for his extradition by martial law on charges of treachery, selling state secrets and comprising the national security for the State of Borginia. We understand that diplomatic measures may be called into allowing for the legal processes to occur and the office of the district attorney has already been notified of this matter. If you permit us to hold a meeting with him prior to any legal involvement then we can meet in person to discuss his situation. Thank you for your time."

Miles stopped the tape. "This came through my office telephone this morning, so I decided to contact Ms von Karma and Agent Lang, to inform them of the matter. While the telephone does display the contact details or which country the call is originating from - in this case Borginia - there is no plausible way to confirm the location of the caller. Hacking telecommunications takes precision and intelligence services no doubt have that to hide their tracks."

Franziska sighed, crossing her legs together. "In any case, it may prove to be useful information. It is too early to say, but it is a start," she shifted in her seat, addressing Blackquill. "Let's set aside this phone call for the moment. I don't think you've seen the video, Simon Blackquill. Take a look."

She took out her tablet and showed him the video. A man in a Noh mask sat on the tiled floor of the room; relatively spartan from what he could see, with grey wallpaper and what looked to be Chinese takeaway boxes. No identifying objects - photographs or the sort- could be seen. No doubt this video was shot somewhere in the real and dead Fulbright's apartment. The voice heavily distorted. He watched until the end, lip curled in disgust.

" _...And with that I leave you. Ta-ta! Cheerio!_ " The voice changed and Simon's eyes widened. It was Bobby Fulbright's voice. Or rather, who he thought was the real Fulbright. The man he had never met in his incarceration, beyond a facade that met him behind bulletproof glass and told him of his intentions to rehabilitate him. At what cause? He was to die within the year. He had scoffed at the man in their meeting, same room where his parents had effectively disowned him and Edgeworth had reinstated his right to practice law again, and recalled the exact words in response: "I'm sorry, Prosecutor, but you have no choice.". He could remember seeing those harsh brown eyes. A serious face morphing into a smile. And he was disgusted.

Franziska took back the tablet. "I presume you can tell us if it is a genuine article, Simon Blackquill."

Simon licked his lips, pushing away the image of the 'detective' from his mind. "It is." he confirmed, before swallowing. His throat was dry. He poured himself a glass of water and gulped it down. Lang refilled his glass and handed it back to him. "Here."

"Thank you."

Lang nodded in acknowledgement, and stood up. "Well if the call is true, then it would be useful to brief you on Borginia," he said, setting up a projector to connect to his laptop. "If you could, Chief Prosecutor," he gestured at the lights.

"Ah yes," Miles acknowledged, as he went about dimming the lights and closing the curtains. With the projector on the table, and the screen displayed onto the cream wall behind where Franziska was sat, Lang set to pulling up a map of the world.

Lang focused onto a small landlocked nation in Eastern Europe, bordering Russia and the Baltic states of Estonia and Latvia. "This is Borginia." he stated, and then, pointing his finger to trace a border in the north, he announced, "Above Borginia is Cohdopia."

Cohdopia was shown to be bordering Estonia to the west and Russia to the east, with a small strip of maritime control over the Gulf of Finland in the northwest and Lake Ladoga to the northeast. If Lang zoomed in further, it would show that both nations shared the lakes Peipus and Pskov with Estonia.

"Borginia is small but strong. It has good construction industries." he continued, waving the projector remote around in his hand. "Wood-processing in particular, and some textiles. The economic situation is...a bit messed up since 2025 when they had a recession. It relies on Russia for oil and gas, and exports from Russia have been falling. But their military is powerful as is their military intelligence. From that it's safe to say that Phantom - or Qvinn, but I won't call him that until I see proof - works in the intelligence services there. But as with this phone call, I'll be properly tracing it, we could be put off the scent and for all we know he could be from South Africa. I'm not buying it just yet but the order seems legitimate in connection with the online video. He's a wanted fugitive and Fulbright was his last mission."

Lang shrugged, turning off the projector. "If we're gonna allow him to be extradited then we will have to set up a meeting with his direct superiors. I don't care if it breaks confidentiality agreements, it has to be done to make sure we're not being set up. If they want to meet up with their guy, then okay. But we need our eyes and ears everywhere."

Miles raised his eyebrows. "Agent Lang, you cannot honestly believe that these meetings can be set up, can you?"

"Come on, Mr Prosecutor, don't tell me you haven't heard of this happening. Let them do what they need to do and we get intel from it. Win-win." Lang's hazel eyes drifted. His arms were crossed as if to anticipate a challenge. "It's not like the DA's office isn't sitting on a mountain of bribery and corruption."

"What do you mean by that?" asked Miles, brows furrowing in concern at Lang's words.

Lang put his hands out in front of him in a gesture of non-confrontation. "I'm just saying it as it is. Your so-called legal reform is gonna need to do a lot before it gets anywhere." He folded his arms. "But hey, take it as a compliment - they've got you on the committee for the reform and you're the most moral one around. I trust you, for what it's worth."

With that, Lang stood up and began gathering up his belongings. "Anyway, tell me what the DA says, and then we can get onto the phone call data to verify it. See if the person who made the call is at that meeting."

He checked his watch. "I have to rush now. Got a dinner meeting in Orange County with the Chief of Police," grabbing his coat from the rack, Lang blurted out a quick "Bye."

With Lang's departure signalling an end to their meeting, Franziska was next to leave, detailing a meeting of her own in downtown LA. That left Simon and Edgeworth.

"Have you gathered much evidence from the case I gave you?" asked Miles, breaking the silence. Changing tack would be best for now.

Simon looked up at his superior and nodded. "I have just garnered all the required materials to begin reading. I shall have to enlist in a Borginian translator."

"Hawthorn's work was central to dealing with smuggling cases and missing persons if that is of any help to you. There also were some other things he was handling but the true scale cannot be determined until the police can inform us."

"The constabulary shall apprise me of the details. Or rather, Skye-dono will."

Miles nodded. "How are you settling in with her...after your last one?"

Blackquill eyed him. His superior, sensing discomfort, opened his mouth as if to say something before closing it again.

"I apologise," said Edgeworth finally. "I spoke out of turn. Don't feel obliged to answer that question."

Blackquill shook his head. "Do not concern yourself, Edgeworth-dono. Skye-dono is a good investigative partner." He maintained a neutral expression on his face. "It does not matter any longer." He rose abruptly, fists clenched, and without looking at Edgeworth, said "I should be getting back to work now."

The door clicked shut before Edgeworth could comment any further. He ran a hand over his face and sighed. Then he rose from his seat, clearing the glasses and jug to be washed by the cleaners later. He made his way back to his desk, drawing open the curtain to let a little light in. Grey skies.

The light caught the golden stamps and insignias on his academic certificates, hung neatly in a small rack down the wall next to the bookcases; his undergraduate degree in Law, his license to prosecute, his Masters in European and International Law and finally his doctorate in European Legal Studies. He smiled at the certificates, before lowering the blinds a little. What with the California sunlight, he could not risk those papers fading.

They were, after all, testament to the last seven years he spent abroad, and he was proud of them. He'd managed to do his PhD part-time from Berlin, while managing a caseload throughout the continent, with a particular focus on rooting out corruption and legal grey areas. Lang's comments were not appreciated, as though they had insulted his efforts and his work. He knew the agent meant no harm, and it was true there was work still to be done but...Miles shook his head, it was uncalled for.

The dark age of the law, as he had dubbed it first in an academic paper in 2023, was to take a while till it cleared up and the first step forward was to ascertain the central role of Phantom - Erikh Qvinn? - in it. He had seen lawyers and friends lost to the clutches of forgery and false accusations. Even if the man was a spy, an outlier, and a foreigner, he was still granted the right to a fair trial. There is only what is morally right and wrong - there is no good and evil.

There was no point in mulling over the success of reforms; there was always work to be done. Having brewed a pot of tea, he set about finishing up some paperwork. At 4pm, his secretary came in with a plate of tuna and cucumber sandwiches and he checked his emails, writing a couple of responses. More paperwork, and more emails, till it was 6pm and he had switched off his laptop ready to leave for home.

"Good evening," he said to his secretary as he left the office.

"Good evening, sir," she replied.

He was halfway down the stairs when she called out for him.

"What is it?"

"A memo from the DA just came in," and without prompting her, she read aloud its contents. "It says that the DA approves Interpol's request."

"Well, that's that then," he muttered glumly. "Just leave it on my desk. I'll get back to it in the morning. Thank you."

 _Well, they were getting somewhere, weren't they?_ Miles thought to himself. It was no use thinking about it now. Till tomorrow, then, he concluded to himself as he carried on downstairs.


	5. 4: Visit

**Chapter 4: Visit**

* * *

 **January 20, 2028**

* * *

The box-like room that served as a meeting room was damp. That was all he could think of. It was damp, and there was a faint smell of piss. He looked around him. Cement walls and linoleum floor. Linoleum was good for cleaning stains.

It still didn't change the fact that it smelled like piss in here though. Piss and bleach.

There was a sheet of glass that covered his side of the wall from the other. There were two chairs set up on the other side. The glass did not mean he could see his face. Tough.

He had not seen his face since he was put in his cell — oh, he didn't know how many days ago now — so that did not matter. He hadn't been told why he was here, or who he was for that matter. They just kept calling him "Guy". Was his name Guy? He didn't know that either.

All he knew was that there was a security camera looking right at him. He didn't like security cameras. They'd taken him from his cell to be cuffed by the ankles to a chair, to just sit and wait.

He craned his neck to look at the guard posted at the door, but his shackles refused to budge.

So he was to sit and wait and look ahead.

Well, goddamnit.

"Why am I here?" he attempted.

The guard did not respond. He stared at the security camera for a few more moments before concluding that any attempts to get an answer would be fruitless, so he settled back down in his seat.

If he wasn't going to get any answers, he might as well entertain himself. So, he simply amused himself by staring at his hands. He could see no blemishes; no scars; no moles or freckles. No veins, for that matter. Pale white. Boring.

A cell door slammed shut in the distance, and a guy inside the block screamed. He tutted. There was always noise. It never stopped. He had moved on to examining his nails by now. They had been clipped short, with no dirt underneath them. Equally as dull.

He was about to move on to his feet, when the door on the other side opened with a sharp squeak. Two figures had emerged. Two figures for two seats. He looked at them.

Ah, so that was why he had been summoned.

"Hello, Erikh Qvinn," said the woman.

"Hello," he responded. Was that his name now?

The man and the woman were brown-haired and blue-eyed and wore double-breasted suits. They sat down in front of him. She wore glasses. He had a scar on his right cheek, just above the cheekbone.

"Would you like to look at yourself?" asked the woman.

Look at himself? What a strange question. The woman pressed a mirror against the glass.

"That's your face, Erikh Qvinn." She had a nasal voice. He did not like her voice.

He lifted his head to face his reflection. What greeted him was deep hazel eyes and a smooth egg for a head. His mouth was a pale pink line on his ashen face. His cheekbones jutted out. He had dark eyelashes. There was a deep scar in the centre of his forehead.

So this was Erikh Qvinn's face, was it?

Erikh Qvinn moved his lips, settling his mouth into an upwards smirk, and then a thin line for a frown, and then allowed for the corners of his mouth to turn downward. Erikh Qvinn moved his eyebrows, scrunching them up and raising them, cocking one eyebrow; he could see the creases in his eyelids and the corners of his eyes. And Erikh Qvinn opened his mouth, a hollow laugh escaping him. He could see his teeth, pearly white. He closed his mouth, resuming into a dead set gaze.

She removed the mirror. They began pulling out files from their briefcases.

"I assume you know why we're here." she said.

Qvinn shrugged. His lips turned downward in a condescending smirk. "No." he said flatly.

"I am Rebekah Klaark and this is Johannes Birken," she introduced, indicating a hand at her colleague. He had sunken eyes and stubble. "We're from Central Command in Borginia."

Birken then chose to speak. He had a low voice. Qvinn preferred his voice. "You have appeared on our radar as a mole. We have been conducting investigations into agents suspected of illegal conduct, selling state secrets and such. You've appeared there more than once. Could you explain why?"

"The video explains it enough, don't you think." He tilted his head to face Birken, Birken's face remained in its neutral expression.

"The video is an attack on our state. Your state too." Birken frowned. "I don't understand what you mean by purging the 'old order', as you put it."

A forced, lopsided smile escaped Qvinn. "It is what it is. You are of the days of the war and here we are in the age of the law," He leaned forward, eyes trained on the man. "You should've died on the battlefield."

Birken did not respond. He merely swallowed, and maintained his neutral face. Klaark, meanwhile, had not taken kindly to what he had said.

"This is slander, Agent." responded Klaark, a frown etched deep into her face. "You have verbally assaulted an officer, you have compromised our national security by appearing in a court of law unmasked, consistently physically assaulted a civil servant, one Simon Blackquill, with a taser. And that is only within this country's borders alone. There is evidence that indicates you having conducted your missions in an unethical manner."

"Show me your proof, Ms Klaark." He spat out her surname with venom. His voice no longer monotone.

A rustling of papers and then a few photographs were lined up in front of him. "These put you at various comprising zones unrelated to your missions. Here we have you near the Cohdopian embassy in Copenhagen, then at the embassy in Moscow and again in Tokyo. None of your missions have fallen under the joint forces of Cohdopia and Borginia. We have reason to believe that you are allied with Cohdopia. Need I remind you that diplomatic relations between the two countries are strained?"

"A few photos show nothing. Got any written proof?"

Instead of more paperwork, Birken pulled out a recording device and pressed play.

"Take this and give it to Kjeran. Do not fuck this up."

He stopped the recording. Klaark continued. "This is a recorded conversation between you and a Cohdopian agent in 2027 before your transferral to the United States. Kjeran Pappilo was the former minister of defence of Cohdopia prior to his resignation later that year. Pappilo then provided us with the papers at the end of his term. The documents contained highly sensitive data which would've compromised our head of state and given Cohdopia reason to believe that we wanted their resources."

She leaned forward, her icy blue eyes boring holes into Qvinn's. "Allow me to emphasise, since you clearly don't understand the severity of your actions. Your data was given to Cohdopia, with which we have a tense relationship with and years of war. Considering how sensitive it was, it could have escalated into war."

"The world is always at war."

The officers opposite him chose to ignore his comment. They exchanged stern glances. Klaark turned her head to face him again. "Your treason is enough to put you to the firing squad. For that we shot you in the head at that trial lest you were to compromise our relationship with the United States also. You're lucky you survived."

Qvinn stiffened. No reply.

"You're also lucky that Interpol caught you before we did. If not..." A smirk formed on her pale features, and she had her face pressed up against the glass. "You'd have received more than that pretty little scar on your forehead," she hissed.

The muscles in Qvinn's bottom jaw were working, moving rapidly; his eyebrows were knitted in a frown, he glared at the door. Then he lowered his head, trying to avoid eye contact. "Why don't you tell Central Command that I won't be back. I'd rather eat shit than go back there."

The smirk was still present. "Your message shall be passed on. Good day, Erikh Qvinn."

The chairs scraped again on the floor, the papers rustled and boots clacked on the surface. The two officers filed out without so much as a backward glance, only pausing to nod politely at the security guard who held the door on the other side. Qvinn did not look away from the door, until he was forcibly led back to his cell. The cell that smelled like piss and bleach.

His feet shuffled as he was led down the bleak corridor. Pathetic and frail wisps of light escaped the barred windows. He looked around as he was pushed forward, noting the space between the bars, the concrete floor and concrete walls.

Aside from the sound of shuffling feet and the low hum coming from the ventilation system, loud silence was injected into the corridors and rooms as Qvinn became nothing more than a light grey dot at the end of the hallway. Practically invisible.

Practically a Phantom.


	6. 5: Jurisdiction

**Chapter 5: Jurisdiction**

* * *

 **January 21, 2028**

* * *

It had just turned eight when Edgeworth pulled up at the Prosecutor's Office car park. He turned off the engine and unbuckled his seatbelt. He sighed. He didn't often come at this hour, usually opting to leave home earlier to arrive at seven. But today he had woken up a little later having slept at midnight the night before, and right now, was feeling thoroughly miserable. This is why he didn't stay up till midnight.

It wasn't that he had intended to go to bed so late. It just happened that he'd got back home yesterday evening, walked the dog, fed the dog, made himself dinner and then just lay on the sofa for the better part of the evening, watching mind-numbing TV. The mind-numbing TV had made his mind wander and next thing he knew, he went to bed two hours after his scheduled bedtime.

He wasn't looking forward to today, that much was clear. Franziska's text last night partly explained the mind-wandering; they'd had the DA-approved meeting earlier that day, and she was going to come over this afternoon to bring him up to speed. Small mercies, he had to note, that it was her rather than Lang that would be meeting him today.

He grabbed his coat and briefcase and exited the car, locking it behind him. For what it was worth, he was glad he had slept in his own bed than stayed at the office. His sleepless nights in his twenties were catching up to him fast these days. They did say that your thirties meant taking better care of yourself. At least he was doing that much. What did they call it? Striking a work-life balance. Yes, that was it.

He could safely say he was trying to strike that balance. He opened the fire door that led him up into the lobby. He had his own house now; a small bungalow fit for a man and his dog in suburbia. His younger self would've shuddered at the notion, but years of sparse flats and rented rooms in foreign cities meant that he had come to appreciate mundane things, like houses with white picket fences. And it was a nice house, with a porch that he could sit on in the evenings. They didn't have that in Europe.

He nodded a good morning to the receptionist in the lobby, and then walked straight towards the fire stairs. Before he could grab the handle to open the door, a hand shot out in front of him.

"Oh, morning, Mr Edgeworth," greeted the feminine voice.

A small smile passed him. "Good morning, Detective Skye. I see you're taking the stairs."

She opened the door to let him in. "Yeah. Elevator was too damn slow."

"Ah. It usually is at this hour. What are you doing here?"

She held up the bags on evidence in her free hand. "I've gotta drop these off at the tenth floor."

"Prosecutor Blackquill's case? How is it faring?"

She grimaced. "The data is...It's all a mess, put it that way."

"A mess?" He asked, taking the stairs two by two.

She came to a stop, beckoning him downstairs again. "We found a microchip on Hawthorn and it turns out he was working on stuff that were on Interpol's servers," she whispered. "I haven't told Blackquill yet. Just about to."

"That isn't unusual for an international prosecutor in his standing. But I do understand that it would be a muddle to get through." He sighed. "And I presume you cannot access what is on those servers at the moment?"

Ema shook her head. "No. I'd have to get permission."

He would have to get ahold of Agent Lang, in that case. "I'll see what I can do on my end."

She nodded. "I'll tell Blackquill all that."

"While you're at it, could you ask him to meet me at nine-thirty?"

"Sure."

The rest of their walk up to the tenth floor continued in silence. Ema then pushed the door to the tenth floor hallway and looked at him.

"Have a good day, Mr Edgeworth." she said before she disappeared behind the door.

"You too, Miss Skye."

He finally made his way up to his fourteenth floor office, nodded a good morning to his secretary before seating himself at his desk. As his laptop booted up, he checked through his schedule for the day before moving to his email.

 _Subject: Evidence query_

 _Dear Agent Lang,_

 _I'm writing to inquire about a Jacob Hawthorn's casework with Interpol. He was a prosecutor under my jurisdiction with sensitive information on his person, who was found murdered on March 17. It may help the investigation team in charge, to allow them access to his work with Interpol._

 _Regards,_

 _Miles Edgeworth._

Now he was to wait for a response. In the meantime, he could only busy himself with some unfinished paperwork until his set meeting with Blackquill. He hoped the man was doing alright; he hadn't seemed very comfortable at their meeting the other day.

At nine-thirty, Blackquill entered, looking somewhat pleased with himself. That seemed a relief. He wondered whether Detective Skye had a hand to play in his subordinate's bemusement, but nevertheless, it was calming to see him like this.

"Edgeworth-dono," nodded Blackquill in acknowledgement. "You requested my presence."

"I did. Please, make yourself comfortable," said Miles. He moved to sit down opposite his colleague. "I am sure Detective Skye has informed you of the current issue in your victim's records?"

"She has," he confirmed. "It is tedious."

"Unfortunately, this is not uncommon. International prosecutors often find themselves with casework that is tied to Interpol. For us to obtain it, we need to gain permission from them."

"I see." Blackquill leaned back in his seat. He looked to be contemplating the situation. Then he asked, "Would that imply the international constabulary will take control of this case?"

Miles furrowed his eyebrows. "It is too early to say at the moment. But it seems likely. I am sure you are aware of the terms of jurisdiction?"

"Is that not the case for our mutual friend?" Blackquill didn't look at him when he said that.

"It is indeed the case. Interpol takes control of the overall investigation, but collaborates with local police authorities to reach the truth of the matter."

"Ergo, Biscuits will remain in charge here then, should this prove to be an international matter."

"Yes," confirmed Miles. "You will also then be asked to liaise with Interpol on any of your findings."

"Understood." Simon crossed his arms. "On that note, Edgeworth-dono…"

"Yes?"

"It appears the deceased was investigating smuggling rings and espionage agencies."

"Again, not unusual, given the scope and breadth of Interpol's activities."

"Furthermore," continued Blackquill. "Do you not find it intriguing that the phone call from these alleged Borginian officials came on the morrow of discovering this murder? Bearing in mind that the victim was focused on investigations in Borginia."

Miles frowned. "I have to admit, it is a little unusual. There may be no connection whatsoever between Mr Hawthorn's casework and Borginia, be it in the form of their intelligence services or their criminal activities. But...I sincerely doubt that."

"Hm." Simon rose from his seat. "Indeed. Well, do inform me if the jurisdiction is passed on to Interpol. I shall do my best to comply with their investigation."

"I shall, Mr Blackquill. I have contacted Agent Lang, in any case."

Satisfied with his response, Blackquill nodded and left, leaving Miles to get back to his work.

For the rest of the morning, he busied himself with sorting out the court docket for next month and sending reviews to the P.I.C. There was only so much he could do for the time being with regards to the court docket; he had managed to schedule appeals and civil court cases that had been in their preparation stages for a while now, meaning they had been on a waiting list to have their cases seen to. Criminal courts did not have that luxury; there was a significant degree of spontaneity he had to account for, so it was left to circumstances at the time. For example, had Blackquill managed to find a suspect in the Hawthorn murder already, his case would be heard on Monday morning. But as there was no suspect and the investigation in its nascent stages, that case would not see a courtroom anytime soon.

At around lunchtime his secretary had brought in his customary sandwich and salad, leaving him to make tea. He would check his emails for a second time at lunch. Over his sandwich, he logged in to his email and found a reply from Agent Lang. Or rather, Franziska had responded.

 _Subject: Re: Evidence query_

 _Dear Miles Edgeworth,_

 _At the moment we cannot safely provide access to Jacob Hawthorn's documents. I will meet you at 3 PM to discuss this further with you._

 _Regards,_

 _Franziska von Karma_

True enough, Franziska turned up at his office at three in the afternoon. By then, he had sent off reviews to the P.I.C regarding prosecutorial conduct in his office, singling out a few names for consideration. Over the last few years, under Justine Courtney's direction, the committee had developed to become a more reliable regulatory body that he could trust in their conduct as an overseer in the legal world. He hoped he would continue to see a solid working relationship between the P.I.C and the Prosecutors' Office through the process of the legal reform.

The ever-familiar sounds of high heels clicking on wooden floorboards was enough to indicate his visitor. Franziska set her belongings down on the sofa and sat down. "I apologise on short notice for this visit, Miles Edgeworth." she waved off the offer of tea. "But it was important to convey this information to you in person."

She did not wait for him to respond. "First things first, Jacob Hawthorn's murder was not random."

His eyes widened. He sat back down at his desk. "What do you mean?"

"We have received similar reports from overseas," she placed three baby-blue case files on the coffee table. "Three other international prosecutors were found dead in obscure locations. Furthermore, every one of those prosecutors were liaising with Interpol and were found to have microchips on their person."

"That coincides with Mr Hawthorn's murder. Detective Skye informed me of a microchip this morning."

"Precisely. Moreover, it is important to note that these microchips all contained Interpol files."

"Hm." he paused, searching for something to say. He recalled Blackquill's concern earlier today. "Were these lawyers all working on cases related to Borginia?"

"I cannot say for the moment," she crossed her arms. "But is highly probable."

"I see. Out of curiosity then, these other murders...where did they occur?"

"Two of the victims were found dead in skips in London. Another in Brussels. The New Scotland Yard and the Brussels Police have already handed over jurisdiction to us, so it is natural then that we will expect the same from here."

"That is understandable. And of course, you can expect the LAPD's full cooperation. It is Simon Blackquill's case."

"Very well then. I will leave you with these copies of the current preliminary case files, for reference. I will let you know if any more murders crop up."

"Thank you, Franziska. You're most helpful."

"Hmph," she picked up her belongings. "Do not expect any special treatment in this matter, Miles Edgeworth."

He smiled wryly at her. "I don't." Then he furrowed his eyebrows. "I do have one question, however. Unrelated, perhaps."

She raised an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"The meeting between Phantom and his supposed superiors. How was it?"

"It appeared to be civil. We were able to confirm the caller's voice matched with that of a woman present at the meeting. I cannot disclose any more details."

"I see. Then, will we be seeing these officials any time soon?"

"Perhaps, but I cannot say we know when. Agent Lang will see to those preparations. He is the lead investigator in these murder cases now."

"Very well, then. I shall pass this information on to Simon Blackquill and Detective Skye. In the meantime, would you—"

She finished his sentence. "Yes, I will accompany you for brunch on Sunday."

He smiled. "In that case, see you Sunday morning."

She nodded, put on her coat and exited. "Good day, Little Brother."

"Good day."

Following through with what he had said, he asked his secretary to scan the documents Franziska had left him. With that done, he placed them into a file and emailed them to Detective Skye with accompanying notes. Skye replied shortly after, thanking him for the information and informing him that at the moment, their investigation had hit a dead end with regards to the lack of Interpol intelligence. She and Blackquill were now to play the waiting game and see how events would unfold over the next few days. Miles acknowledged this grimly. Blackquill's short and brusque email confirmed as much, but he reaffirmed that he would fully cooperate with Interpol.

That done, Miles' day was brought to a close. He had a long but productive day today, and was pleased with his efforts. Until Monday then, when he would have to tackle new issues. But so far, so good; everything that had been in his in-tray this morning was in his out-tray. Now, at six on the dot, he could go home, relax with a movie or a book and take it easy for a couple of days.

And with that, he turned off his office lights; brightly coloured advertisement signs and firm logos glared in neon at him in the darkness. There were still plenty of lights on in the skyscrapers nearby. But he was not to feel guilty any more for leaving work at all for that matter.

He was quite ready to enjoy his weekend.

* * *

At ten sharp, the doorbell rang. Miles dried his hands on a teatowel, before reaching for the door. This was what he had been waiting for all weekend, and Pess was wagging her tail.

Brunch was only something recent they had begun to do, whenever Franziska could spare a moment to visit him in her very hectic schedule. The fact that it had now extended to his house made him happy, as their previous brunches had been held in small French cafes, English and Irish pubs, or hotel restaurants where she was staying at, with only an hour to catch up between themselves.

"Hello, Franziska," he greeted her as she strode into the hallway, in her hands her handbag and a large duty-free bag.

"Hello, Little Brother." After taking off her shoes and coat, she presented him with the bag. "Your birthday present. I was unsure that I would not be able to get it sent on time, so I decided to bring it with me from Germany. Happy Birthday."

Taking the aforementioned bag, he smiled, "Thank you. Even if it is five weeks early."

"You may open it before brunch."

"Very well then," he said, taking it into the living room. After making themselves comfortable — he in an armchair and her on the leather sofa — Miles turned to the contents of the bag. He pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a large burgundy-wrapped box. Trust Franziska to go by his favourite colour scheme, he mused. The box rattled in his hands. He tore off the wrapping paper and revealed his present: a Lego Creator set of the Steel Samurai. Judging by the box cover alone, it contained all the Edo-period buildings that had prominently featured in the series and the Shogun's castle. There were even little Lego figures of the Steel Samurai, his family, and the passersby in the series.

When he looked up, Franziska was smiling wryly at him. "I thought you would like it. You never were very good at hiding your foolish love for that thing. Terrible, if I may say so."

"I do like it very much. Thank you, Franziska," he stood up and patted her on the shoulder. That was as far as they went for physical affection. "You have given me something to occupy my spare time with. But for now, I am sure you are hungry."

"You surmise correctly." Franziska joined him in the kitchen.

He laid out the plates on the kitchen counter, while she set about tossing the salad he had finished making when she'd arrived. Then he tore off some smoked salmon into a pan with butter and set about whisking eggs in a bowl with some milk, salt and pepper. Then he poured the mixture in, quickly stirring it around before he divided the scrambled eggs between the plates. He took the orange mimosas out of the fridge, and set everything on the table.

They sat down to eat. Over smoked salmon and scrambled eggs, Miles queried. "What are we to do about the meeting with the Borginian officials?"

Franziska set down her knife and fork. "That is something we will discuss at the office tomorrow. For the moment I do not wish to discuss work matters."

"How unlike you." he said. "Though I must agree, these days it is best to separate work from life. Is that something you have considered these days?"

Franziska tilted her head to the side. A pensive look preceded her. "Sometimes. Not often, mind you."

"I have been trying to take time off myself," he chuckled to himself. "Alas, to no avail."

She sipped at her orange mimosa. "Have you considered going somewhere new by yourself?"

He shook his head. "I haven't had the time, but I would like to go to South America. Their political situation has improved in recent years."

"I have not been to South America. Agent Lang has, if you would like any recommendations. Though it would be a foolish conversation to have."

"Why?"

"Agent Lang and yourself do not share much in common."

"I have gathered as much myself in the interactions I've had it with him over the years," he commented over a forkful of eggs. "Nevertheless, that does not mean his suggestions should be rejected."

Franziska helped herself to some salad. "Hm."

"Well, anyway, I was considering taking a summer holiday for a change. Once this matter is resolved."

"That would be acceptable."

Sensing a lull in the conversation, Miles chose a different approach. "So, what have you been up to lately? I have not seen you in at least six months, no?"

"I have not done very much in my private life, if you must know. I have been in touch with Adrian Andrews, however."

"Oh?" he tilted his head questioningly.

"She is well. She has since decided that marketing was not a field where she could be perfect in, so she went back to university for psychiatry. Last I spoke to her, she has been working in a mental health clinic."

"What does she specialise in?"

"Cognitive behavioural therapy, for general disorders. Depression and anxiety, and the like. I would not know. I have never been afflicted with a mental health condition."

He peered at her over the rims of his glasses. "Is that suitable for her, given her history with mental health?"

"Yes," she raised an eyebrow. "In fact, she tells me she finds it empowering. To help the helpless, so to speak."

"Ah. Well, that is good for her then. I shall be sure to place her name on our intranet resources page for mental health."

"What is that?"

"Something I implemented. Given the high-stress environment we work in, I have been encouraging my colleagues to seek help if necessary. They can access helplines or services, covered by our health insurance provider. I do not need to be notified of this, as it is rather discrete, unless the matter escalates."

"Has it escalated yet?"

He leaned back in his seat. "Thankfully, no. But I do worry for some of my colleagues at times. Then again," he put his hands up in the air in a gesture of defeat, "It is none of my business."

Franziska inhaled, then exhaled slowly. "I cannot imagine having your position as Chief Prosecutor."

He claimed the last dregs of his mimosa. "Well, you were always independent, Franziska. There's nothing wrong with that."

She did not choose to comment on that. Instead, she changed the subject. "I have noticed you do not work with Scruffy anymore."

"That is true, I do not. Gumshoe left the police force in 2023."

"Why?" she asked, frowning.

"He married Maggey Byrde. They live in Sacramento with their two boys. He works for an independent security firm as the Chief Officer."

"Hmph," she put her knife and fork on the plate, indicating she had finished with her meal. "May he be happy."

Miles smiled at that. Yes, indeed, may Gumshoe be happy. He really ought to pay the man a visit at some point. He began clearing away their plates, moving into the kitchen.

"Have you heard from Marie lately?" he inquired.

Franziska ran a hand through her hair. Her bracelets jangled. "I have not heard from my older sister, no. As you know, she was quite happy to cut ties with the von Karma family from an early age."

"Yes, quite. Perhaps with good reason. She's a good ten years older than you."

"Hm. In any case, I do not consider her family. Papa might have, since he was fond of his granddaughter. I have only one family member, and that is you, Miles Edgeworth."

He smiled as he stacked the dishwasher. "Glad you think that way. I, too, consider you my only living family member. We should do well to stick together."

He looked at her as he said this; she had a serious expression on her face. "As we have done so far, Little Brother."

"As we have done, indeed."

The rest of Franziska's visit passed in relative bliss. She was able to stay for the afternoon, so after brunch they had taken the time to walk Pess along the beachfront a half hour's drive from where he lived — Franziska had called her "a perfect dog", so there was something to be said for that — and then they had come back, to relax. They watched _To Kill a Mockingbird_ on his DVD player. After that, Franziska saw fit to take her leave.

"It is good to see you are well here," said Franziska as they reached the door of his house. She set about putting on her coat and then her shoes.

"Indeed."

Tying the coat up, she announced, "I may visit you at the office tomorrow to discuss work."

"Naturally," he crossed his arms. "But...it was nice to not talk about work today."

"Yes." She paused momentarily on the doorstep, eyes on the ground as if searching for something else to say. She settled on "Good night."

"Good night."

* * *

On Monday, as he had expected, Franziska showed up to his office with the intention of discussing work. With her, she had brought her tablet and a manila envelope.

"Hello, Miles Edgeworth," she greeted him. "Agent Lang apologises he could not attend this meeting, but matters in the Zheng Fa consulate took precedent."

"Not an issue." Miles said, extending a hand. "Please, take a seat."

"No tea, please." she remarked, noticing how he had immediately jumped to the tea cabinet. Force of habit of his, to offer tea to visitors. "I have only an hour to spare."

He nodded, placing the tea bags back in the drawer. "Certainly. Then, please, take it away."

Franziska inhaled. "I have received permission for you to listen to an audio file of the Borginian meeting from last week."

"Very well, then."

She handed him her tablet and earphones for him to listen to. It was a ten-minute audio clip, that had been cut down to the most important bits from its original forty-five minutes. Plenty of the information was redacted, he noticed, in the jumps in audio. But the last line Phantom said caught him; it had been uttered with such force and clarity. By voice alone, it was hard to imagine Phantom as an emotionless being. Then again, he hadn't yet had the opportunity to meet the man in person.

Handing the tablet back to Franziska, he noted, "There certainly appears to be a polarity in opinion between the two of them. It is interesting that they mentioned the video themselves. That would confirm Blackquill's statement that it was Phantom who made the video."

"Indeed. As you would have noticed, for time reasons and for national security, we redacted the critical information that was discussed. It would be an issue if this audio clip were to be leaked. Therefore, I'm entrusting this transcript..." she patted the manila envelope. "...to you."

"Was it relevant information?" he asked, taking the envelope from her.

"Not necessarily to Interpol. But within the context of their conversation, yes." She stowed the tablet away. "Since you asked on Friday, we have taken the opportunity to contact Rebekah Klaark and Johannes Birken to schedule a meeting with them, based on the information they shared with us in the telephone call you received last week."

"I see. Have you prepared anything yet?"

"We are waiting on a response from them, but I would imagine the meeting would concern the possibility of Phantom's extradition to Borginia or him remaining in Interpol's custody. If the Republic of Borginia manages to extradite him, he is out of our hands. What they do is up to them."

Miles nodded in understanding. Clearly this was a delicate matter. He rose to his feet.

"The least we can do is try," he said. "I won't keep you any longer then. Let me know of any developments when you can."

"I will." Indicating this meeting was over, she collected her belongings. "Have a good week, Miles Edgeworth."

"And yourself, Franziska," he replied, closing the door behind him.

It was going to be a long and busy week.


	7. 6: Conference

**Chapter 6: Conference**

* * *

 **January 26, 2028**

* * *

It was quarter to three in the morning and Johannes Birken hadn't managed to get to sleep yet.

This wasn't something unusual. It just...happened from time to time.

He had gone to bed at eleven, after he had said a goodnight to Klaark. He had brushed his teeth, flossed and even plucked his eyebrows. He had trimmed his nails too. He had stripped down to his boxers, and got into bed, and turned out the light. The room was dark as he liked it. He couldn't sleep if there was any light. Even if that light came from the small crack between the door and the floor. Everything in his night routine was perfect. He had set the alarm for seven sharp. This meant he would get his seven-point-five hours of sleep. Four sleep cycles worth of sleep, and feel refreshed in the morning.

Except, he hadn't managed to get to sleep. He had been awake for two-and-a-bit sleep cycles. He had tossed and turned, perhaps trying to find the most comfortable position — this wasn't a bed he was used to — but to no avail. He had fluffed up the pillows and even rearranged them into an L-shape; two pillows for his head, and one pillow for his side. But this also hadn't proved to be effective. He had thrown the covers off, and then pulled them back up again, and off and up again. He had even tried to count back from one hundred. Then he had tried blinking as many times as he could in a minute to shut his brain off.

No. None of that had worked. He had exhausted all his options. But thankfully for Johannes, this was an issue he had encountered before. There was no specific reason to his sleeplessness, so he need not dwell on that, but there was a specific remedy he had in mind: hot chocolate.

He sat up in bed and retrieved his socks from the floor. They were grey, with sushi rolls on them. Johannes liked patterned socks – why be boring and wear dark socks when you can wear patterned socks under your combat boots? Klaark didn't like that he did that, though. She said he was being unprofessional. Well, it didn't matter anyway; he was decent at his job, and no one saw his socks. Just the other day he had managed to infuriate Erikh Qvinn. That was a good one. He liked to infuriate Erikh Qvinn. He was an odious little man.

He got out of bed, and fumbled around trying to get to the door. This was the one disadvantage of loving the dark so much; he couldn't actually find his way out if he needed to. But he had managed to find the door handle without bumping into anything, so that was a success, and he turned it. Socked feet padded gently on the wooden floorboards. The kitchen was diagonal to his room. Klaark's room was at the far end of the hallway he was now standing in. He hoped he wouldn't disturb her.

He tiptoed into the kitchen, and closed the door behind him. He turned on the side light beside the sink. It was a nice orange light, and it bathed his skin in orange. He liked orange; it marked the white scars on his chest. He was very...proud of those scars. Now with a source of light, he could go about locating this hot chocolate powder.

He was glad he had managed to bring this particular hot chocolate from Borginia. Klaark said it was stupid, because they would get stopped at Customs in the airport. Well, Klaark was wrong, because it was sitting on the kitchen counter next to the tea and coffee. He could only get this hot chocolate at a particular Swiss chocolaterie in the north part of Skande.

He grabbed a mug from the cupboard above him and set about spooning the powder into his mug. He got the milk out of the fridge and added a little bit to the powder, stirring it together. Dark brown chocolate sludge emerged from the mixture.

"What're you doing?"

Klaark was leaning against the doorframe. Clearly he had disturbed her sleep. Johannes frowned. "I'm making hot chocolate," he thrust the mug into her face to show her. "Would you like some?"

"No," she snapped. "You need to go back to bed."

"Drinking hot chocolate will help me go to sleep."

She rubbed at her eyes. "You mean to tell me you haven't slept yet?"

"No."

She sighed. He didn't like her when she was like this. "Did you have nightmares again?" she asked exasperatedly. "Is that why you couldn't sleep?"

"No. I just didn't sleep."

"I'm asking because it's such a regular thing with you."

"I know." he poured the rest of the milk in and stirred the mixture. Some cocoa granules floated up to the top. Not a problem. "You know it was just a war."

She eyed him curiously; he was staring intently at his mug. "It's not just a war if you have to take medication for it."

Johannes swallowed. "It was many years ago." He turned to face her, mug now in his left hand. Her eyes darted between his face and the old skin graft on his left arm. It was hard to ignore that scar. "We fought. We protected. We killed. We served our country."

There was no emotion behind his voice when he said that. It was all very matter-of-fact. Klaark nodded slowly. "As we are doing now. Protecting our country."

He took a big gulp of hot chocolate, tipping his head back. "Yes." Another big gulp. He set the mug down on the kitchen counter. He had finished his drink.

"Now you need to go back to bed. For the morning."

"For the meeting, I know." He put the milk back in the fridge, and the hot chocolate back between the coffee and tea. "You don't have to remind me."

"Sometimes I feel I have to. Like last week."

Ah yes, last week, when he'd overslept before their meeting with Erikh Qvinn. It didn't matter, because Erikh Qvinn was oblivious to the whole thing. "Then good night." he announced, and brushed past her. He did not look at her. He went straight for his room.

The hot chocolate worked, because after getting under the covers, Johannes managed to sleep finally. The remedy had prevailed again.

* * *

He awoke at the sound of his set alarm blaring at him from the bedside table. He switched it off. He had managed to sleep a little, but it was far less than the seven hours he should have had. That meant he would need to make up for it tonight by sleeping early. He still couldn't quite get used to the time zone here. It was daylight when he was used to it being nighttime.

Well, it was something he was just going to have to get used to for the next few days. Maybe weeks. He didn't know how long he would stay in America. Their colleagues had said it was a precautionary mission i.e. get there, assess the situation and move forward. They would not interfere. He hoped they didn't. He hated interference.

Like right now, Klaark was in the bathroom, which meant he couldn't go to the toilet. Johannes stood, shifting his balance from one leg to other. He heard the water run down the sink. She should be washing her hands then. Then no water. The rattle of the towel holder as it squeaked. Then the door opened.

Klaark had wet brown hair in a towel and a navy blue blouse on. Nothing on her lower half. He tried not to stare.

"Hello, Birken," she said. "Did you sleep?"

"Yes," he said slowly, avoiding eye contact.

"Good. We will head out in half an hour."

After that brief interference, he was able to go about his morning routine. Shower, shave and dress. Today it was their olive green uniforms. Olive green with gold buttons. He liked this uniform better than the dark one, not that he knew why. Olive green trousers and double-breasted jacket, and tie and cap. Light green shirt. Black boots. He had a couple of medals on the breast of his jacket.

He checked himself in the bathroom mirror, before sliding on his black beret. He was sufficiently presentable. It wasn't often that he got to deck out in full military attire. There were the annual ceremonies of course, in Skande, and the military parade that accompanied it, or occasionally travelling abroad on official business. But travelling abroad for Johannes was rare — he much preferred the comfort of his desk and the cold northern weather with it — so he didn't mind wearing it out these days. The only gripe was that it may be too warm for California. Oh well, he mused, at least it was wintertime here.

Klaark met him the hallway with a thick manila envelope and an apple. "Your breakfast," she announced, offering him the apple. He took it.

The ride to the Prosecutor's Office was quiet, save for him eating his breakfast. He made quick work of it, working his way down to its core, before discarding it in a paper bag. He looked over at his companion, who was busy examining the documents in the envelope, and then looked out the window. It was a clear day in Los Angeles. No clouds.

He tapped his thumb against his index finger. One-two-three, one-two-three.

Palm trees dotted the streets, swaying in the very light, cool breeze. The Prosecutor's Office came into view. It was an imposing brutalist structure. Not a very tall building, compared to the towering skyscrapers that neighboured it, but somehow it exuded a sense of authority.

"You do not have to speak at this meeting. Leave it to me." Klaark finally said.

He nodded slowly. One-two-three, one-two-three.

They pulled up outside the building, and got out. He surveyed his surroundings. He hadn't noticed the car had diplomatic plates. Or a little Borginian flag on it. He frowned. They weren't officials in any sort of way — they weren't politicians or diplomats — so why had Klaark authorised this? Was it even up to her? Well, he assumed so, since he left the work to her. He had just tagged along. That's what they always did; you always travelled in pairs, and one would cover. He was the cover.

One-two-three, one-two-three. He stood on the pavement as she spoke to the receptionist.

"Birken!" she called out to him. Well, he had to go to this meeting, didn't he? No choice. At least the office had a nice interior design; wood panelling and grey carpeting. Burgundy and gold accents. Not so different from the government offices at home.

She beckoned to him impatiently with her hand, ushering him into the elevator. She pressed the button that read '14'. There was only one floor higher than that.

One-two-three, one-two-three, he tapped out. He was going to be bored.

"Stop fidgeting," said Klaark.

"Sorry." He put his hand in his pocket.

The elevator doors opened. What greeted him was much the same; wood panelling and grey carpet. There wasn't much on this floor. There was a desk to his right, and double-doors, flanked by two guards. There were only two more doors in this hallway. There was no one sitting at the desk. But he did hear the sounds of a photocopier going off, and there was chatter in the room with the double-doors.

The guards eyed them when they presented their IDs. The man in particular stared at him.

"Mr Johannes Birken…?"

"Yes," he responded automatically.

It was true he was difficult to discern from his photograph. Then again, wasn't everyone?

The guard slowly nodded. The doors opened.

What greeted them were more burgundy and gold accents; an office complemented by mahogany furniture and thick hardback legal tomes in a particular colour palette of dark reds, purples and blues and greens. There was a faint smell of lavender. Two sofas flanked the large desk. A third sofa had been placed right in front of the desk. On the coffee table was a tea set with cups and saucers, and two glass pots.

The four occupants of the room were standing. Their chatter had ceased, but now Johannes could get a good look at them.

"Welcome," greeted the burgundy one. He had a pleasant polite smile, and he looked smart, in his suit. But he had a frilly thing on his neck that reminded him of eighteenth-century military uniforms. He would not have wanted to live in that century.

"I am Miles Edgeworth, Chief Prosecutor," The burgundy one with the glasses had introduced himself. Edgeworth then gestured at the really tall guy in the black. "This is Simon Blackquill, my subordinate."

Simon Blackquill? He had heard of him from somewhere. Probably related to the odious little man.

"...And these are Interpol Agents Shi-Long Lang," Yeah, he looked like a wolf. "And Franziska von Karma." She looked scary, and electrifyingly blue.

"I am Rebekah Klaark," said Klaark. "And this is my colleague, Johannes Birken."

One-two-three, one-two-three. He nodded at them solemnly. Blackquill was eyeing him. They took their seats. He sat next to Klaark. The cups and saucers clinked together.

"Coffee, Mr Birken?" asked the man in the glasses. Edgeworth, was it?

"Yes, please. With milk and two spoonfuls of sugar." He didn't like coffee and tea, but he couldn't very well ask for hot chocolate here.

Edgeworth handed him the cup. Now that they were all seated with their beverages, their meeting could start.

One-two-three, one-two-three. He was glad he didn't have to speak.

"I am glad you could make it to this meeting. The request was on such short notice." said Edgeworth, stirring his teacup.

Klaark nodded. "Not at all. It was an urgent matter we had to address as soon as possible." She took a sip of coffee. Klaark didn't like coffee, even though there was a tin of it on the kitchen counter. "We work in Borginia's Central Command for internal and external affairs. That means we work in intelligence as high officials."

The blue one — von Karma? — spoke. "And what does your job entail?" She had a haughty voice, with an accent to it. Something Germanic.

"We investigate claims of misconduct in field operations and missions. It's part of a wide open investigation. I am head of department in military intelligence while Birken heads field operations."

"I gather you are here to inform us on Erikh Qvinn?" Miles said, taking a small pastry from the plate.

Johannes frowned. "Erm..." he hadn't intended to speak. That was what Klaark has said, right? And she was giving him _the_ _look,_ at the moment; she would clench her jaw and furrow her eyebrows. He wanted to say something, and now all eyes were on him. "Yes. He's been on our radar as a potential destructor and has unethically conducted his last five assignments, of which includes the recent assignment in the United States."

"I gather you mean Bobby Fulbright." surmised Blackquill. Johannes picked up on a hitch in his voice. Painful, wasn't it, to speak of a man one never knew.

He was about to respond, when Klaark interjected. "Yes. The way he conducted his mission by physically assaulting you under the guise of a persona was not received well by the higher-ups."

She pulled out a thick file from the manila envelope and placed it on the table. The insignia of a raven with an arrow was emblazoned on the cover, the heading written in Borginian and English script. Ah, this was not good.

"Seal?" echoed Blackquill, looking up from the folder in front of him as he read the logo phonetically.

She corrected him. "SEIL. Skande Espionage and Intelligence Locators. It's based in Skande, Borginia's capital city. That is the organisation that falls under our jurisdiction and at which Erikh Qvinn worked."

The wolf man — Lang — took the document with a quick "May I…?" invitation, which Klaark nodded at. He leafed through the pages, scouring through the mission statements of the organisation. von Karma leaned over to have a closer look, pulling out a loose page. Johannes could see it was Qvinn's profile; a mugshot of a man with a gaunt face and deep set dark eyes. He looked slightly different from his mugshot now. At least they had redacted much of the information in it, not least for the sake of Blackquill who was still eyeing him most peculiarly. It was like his eyes were boring into him, trying to catch something.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

"And what is its main aim?" Blackquill asked a question. Blackquill was looking at him.

Johannes tore his gaze away from the file in Lang's hands. "To ensure the safety of the Borginian people." he replied, looking at the top of Blackquill's head.

"So you say. But that does not necessarily mean safeguarding non-Borginians."

"Well," Klaark gave a small apologetic smile. "We do not assign the cases. We just investigate conduct. The safety of the Borginian people is our aim across the board. I'm sure you'd understand."

She turned to look at him. He was still looking straight ahead. Another one of her exasperated looks. Why was she trying to get him to talk? She said she'd handle it. Oh well. "Because Erikh Qvinn is a Borginian citizen, we want to extradite him for his crimes as a result. He is a threat to Borginia and to you." Now he looked directly at Blackquill. Blackquill's leg was bouncing. "I hope that answers your question."

"Yes, you had said you wished to extradite him over the telephone," noted Edgeworth, setting his empty teacup down. Johannes realised he hadn't touched his coffee. Not a loss. "I would understand from that then, that you are aware of the protocol?"

Protocol? Klaark hadn't really spoken about it. She just assumed he would tag along and...tag along he did, under the fine print of 'protecting our nation'. He just wanted to be back in Skande. It was getting stuffy in here.

He noticed she was speaking slowly now. "If we win the appeal and extradite him, then we can first put him in front of the Board of Ethics, which would strip him of his military honours, and then try him in the Skande Supreme Martial Court for his crimes against our state." she rubbed at her ring finger. "If that succeeds then his penalty is either death or life imprisonment. Usually in cases of treason, it is death."

Board of Ethics? There was no such organisation. They only had the martial courts, and the civilian courts. Was Klaark lying?

Edgeworth nodded. "I see. An appeal is indeed the best course of action in these cases." he coughed. "Should the extradition request be accepted and the State loses, the matter will no longer be in Interpol's jurisdiction but rather in the Republic of Borginia's. How you would then choose to proceed is entirely your decision to make within your country's laws."

Klaark raised an eyebrow. "And if we lose the case?"

"You could always appeal to the Supreme Court or the ICC. The jurisdiction would remain with Interpol until a case has been established against him and he can be tried in the Hague."

"May I ask why you would move to indict him for treason?" von Karma asked. Her arms were crossed.

"Because…" he found himself speaking. "Because there is evidence to suggest he has been engaging in illegal activity with the Cohdopians. Our nation has a tense relationship with Cohdopia."

"I see."

He hoped she wouldn't ask any further questions. He couldn't find a way to bluff; all he knew was all he was supplied with. Nothing more, nothing less.

She didn't ask any follow-up questions. Good. She merely exhanged glances with Lang, who had nodded in response.

"In turn, what would you do if we lost the appeal?" asked Klaark.

He hoped they would lose. He didn't want to have to work with the odious little man more than he had to.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

Lang spoke up. He had a gruff voice, not dissimilar to an animated cartoon wolf. "We would move to interrogate him first on his crimes in America, starting from when we first knew of him, to as recently as December. From there, we would try him for those crimes, or collaborate with partner institutions to catalogue any other crimes." Lang tilted his head. "Meaning, you would have just as easily got rid of a morally corrupt agent and placed him behind bars. Not so different, from your own idea."

Their plan sounded better to Johannes. Let them work with the odious little man. He had seen enough firing squads already.

"When is the earliest we can hold this appeal?" Klaark asked, scratching the back of her ear.

He saw Edgeworth exchange glances with Blackquill who was sitting upright and exchanged a glance with him. The earlier, the better. "Next week should be suitable then. It would allow time for both sides to collect evidence for their requests." Blackquill nodded. "Simon Blackquill will be heading the appeal on our side."

Ah yes, that's where he remembered him from. He was in the courtroom when Erikh Qvinn was having his temper tantrum. When Erikh Qvinn was shot. He clenched his jaw. Maybe it would've been easier if they killed him there and then. He blamed the sniper.

"Very well," Klaark planted her hands on her lap and passed a wan smile Simon's way. "That's that sorted then."

She rose and placed a hand on his shoulder. She wanted him to get up. He still hadn't drunk his coffee. Oh well. He could make hot chocolate when he got back. "You may keep that document I lent out. I have an extra copy."

Johannes furrowed his eyebrows; she didn't have another copy. von Karma nodded. "Thank you, Rebekah Klaark. I'm sure it will be useful."

At that, the rest of them rose and one by one, they shook hands. Blackquill only eyed him still, and nodded.

With this ritual complete, Edgeworth opened the door for them and said, "We shall see you at the appeal then."

And then they were out the door, going back down the elevator and into the car.

One-two-three, one-two-three.

Onwards with the sham trial. But first, hot chocolate and rest.


	8. 7: Appeal

**Chapter 7: Appeal**

* * *

 **January 31, 2028**

* * *

Simon's boots thudded on the concrete at a regular pace. He was going neither too fast, nor too slow. At this pace, it would take him thirty minutes to get to Justice Square from the Prosecutor's Office, where he'd just left from. He had arrived early today, when he didn't have to, and had decided to walk, which he qually didn't have to do. He could have opted for a taxi or the bus, but...there was something strangely freeing about walking. Walking and not having his arms constricted by two guards. Just walking straight ahead.

The appeal was being held in a courthouse that he was unfamiliar with. Perhaps he had been in there once before, but he couldn't quite recall. There were three main courthouses dotted about the city. There was the newly renovated one he had been in most frequently, and then there was another one somewhere close to Sunshine Coliseum which he heard handled civil cases more than anything else, and then this one, which he presumed to be the oldest, not least because it was prominently featured in court sketches in newspapers and that his colleagues had made their debuts here.

He, meanwhile, had never had the chance to debut there. It had been undergoing renovations when he had taken on his first criminal case. Larceny, if he recalled correctly.

The trees rustled. It was a grey day. Nothing new to him. That was a benefit of living here; grey days were far and few between, compared to living in England for a large portion of his life.

The courthouse came into view; a large imposing structure reminiscent of Greco-Roman architecture, with its pillars and a large staircase that led into the building. It was an impressive building, but it didn't top courthouses in London.

He made his way up the steps, and passed through the security check. A bailiff ushered him into the courtroom. Courtroom number four.

Simon inhaled and then exhaled slowly. _Bloody hell._ Now he knew why he was so unfamiliar with this place: he hadn't been here in seven years. Seven years, when he had stood on that witness stand and testified to committing murder; his sister up in the gallery about to be held for contempt of court if she didn't stop disturbing the proceedings; and...of screaming little girls, yelling that he hadn't done it.

It didn't matter now. He was here for an entirely unrelated matter. This courthouse had also seen plenty of his superior's battles with corruption, in smuggling rings and in committees...It was no wonder Miles Edgeworth didn't go to court anymore. Just being in the room itself felt...heavy.

Simon checked his phone. It was nine-thirty. The proceedings weren't due to start for another half-hour. A text notification pinged on his phone before he stowed it away. This was not the time to be checking such messages. Nine a.m. meant breakfast and work. The former of which he hadn't indulged in. He wasn't hungry. He just wanted to get this over with.

The media presence wasn't helping. Normally media weren't allowed in court — and if they were, then only in the form of court sketch artists — but given the international scale of this incident, several news outlets had essentially set up shop in a designated part of the gallery. The rest of the gallery was taken up by other lawyers, law students and other curious individuals. He hadn't had this much media presence at his own trials…

Perhaps that had been for the best. He clenched his fist. The room had become infested with artificial lights and tapes whirring and the nasal voices of reporters recapping recent events...of which, most was classified. From snippets he could overhear, the main consensus was that Phantom was just that: a Phantom. Only today might they get a glimpse of what he looked like.

 _I haven't even seen him myself._ He could contend himself with the fact that the man's face would be pixelated and blurred in newspapers and television screens. They had to have some degree of anonymity, these international spies. Anonymity was a luxury he could not afford.

A side door opened, and flanked by two bailiffs was a pale man of medium build and average height, in a harsh orange jumpsuit. He was bald. But other than that...no distinguishing features. It was difficult to tell, seeing as the man was a good several metres away from him, but it surprised Simon even more that... _Phantom? Erikh Qvinn?_...was so...unremarkable in appearance. Phantom was looking down, at nothing in particular— perhaps contemplating the floor design — and he looked positively neutral. The guards made quick work of seating him in the defendant's seat.

Reporters made a beeline for the Phantom, thrusting their cameras and recorders into his face.

"...What do you think about..."

"How do you feel…"

"Is there…"

Phantom did not pay attention. He was staring at his feet. The bailiffs made a ring around him, quelling the reporters. Clearly now was not an appropriate time for interviews.

Nothing new to Simon. He just wished this matter would hurry up already.

Then, the Borginian officials arrived in olive green. _How decorative_ , he mused. They took their places at the bench opposite him, taking out their files and conversing amongst themselves; the woman looked furious, and the man...not so much. If anything, Simon tilted his head to get a better look at them, he looked bored. At the meeting last week, Johannes Birken had struck him to be an odd fellow, not least for his quiet nature, and the strange stronghold his colleague seemed to have him in. It was as though he didn't want to be here, or rather, had no idea why he had been tasked with things he was meant to do.

Breathe in, breathe out. It felt like some horrid parody of his life was playing out right in front of him. He tried to focus on the casework in front of him. He had transcripts, and the files they'd shared with him in last week's meeting, and some of his own chicken-scratch notes. He had looked over them last night on Aura's threadbare sofa in the living room, and then again this morning on the bus ride to the Prosecutor's Office. It wouldn't hurt to look over them again but...the words felt very heavy, and stuffy. And he couldn't concentrate.

There was too much noise around him, and too much running through his mind, and too much going on...In any case, he should be prepared. Never mind not being used to this particular environment. He had been in courtrooms before. He had had media in his face before.

It was just...a question of being able to get through it. Simon closed his eyes, and allowed himself one deep slow breath, in and out his nostrils.

He only opened his eyes when he heard a door open. The judge had entered. Simon took a good look at him; a balding man in his late fifties, with grey-blond hair combed back and a neatly-groomed beard.

Simon watched as he walked up the steps to his bench, took his seat and calmly set his belongings on the table. Then he cleared his throat, drawing the attention of all the personnel in the room.

He placed his glasses on, glanced at the court docket and then raised his head, addressing the room. He began to speak, a distinctly Canadian accent filtering through.

"Good morning. Today's legal proceedings cover an appeal drawn up by representatives of the State of Borginia against the LA County's Prosecutor's Office on the matter of the extradition of Erikh Qvinn." He paused to glance around the room. His eyes fell onto the gallery. "May I remind visitors and media personnel that there will be no unauthorised flash photography, video recording or speaking during this trial. Should any of the rules not be followed, I shall remove the gallery from this courtroom."

Simon could hear the faint rustling of items being placed in bags.

"...I now invite the plaintiffs to present their resolution."

Klaark nodded in acknowledgement. She stepped forward, grasping a sheet of paper. "Your Honour, members of the court, as representatives of the State of Borginia we would like to call attention to section three of our penal code. This states that any member of intelligences services or any citizen found holding information that poses a threat to us is thereby charged with treason and possession of sensitive material, a crime which is punishable by death, inviting them to be transferred to our nation where legal proceedings will be held under the martial court.

Mr Erikh Qvinn is a Borginian citizen working in external governmental affairs and has been in possession of sensitive material on at least ten occasions. We would like to extradite him back to Borginia, for the purposes of questioning him over his activities and to commence legal proceedings under the martial courts. We would like to ask you to understand the situation and invite you to present your verdict as an approval of this resolution."

The resolution was submitted into the court record. The judge furrowed his eyebrows at this last statement. "If I may, Ms Klaark."

"Yes?"

"Can you ensure that Mr Qvinn will be met in Borginia with a proper, full trial before his verdict is determined? I ask this because precedent has shown on some occasions that individuals have been extradited from the United States, for crimes punishable by death, and have been executed without trial. Or if a trial was held, then it was a sham trial."

Klaark opened her mouth and closed it. She nodded. "Yes. Yes, I can reassure you of that. I can refer you to Borginia's human rights record, collated by Amnesty International."

"I see. Right." An uncertain look preceded the judge. The expression was only there for a moment before he faced Simon. "Mr Blackquill. Your statement, if you please."

Simon swallowed. He glanced at his notes. No, the words still felt like lead. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. _You ought to be prepared._

He took in a deep breath. He had to say something, didn't he? He raised his head; his eyes fixed on the wood panelling above Klaark and Birken. He spoke slowly. "Your Honour...The Prosecutor's Office, in conjunction with Interpol, maintain that Erikh Qvinn's acts in this country have had severe consequences, in individual cases and within the Research and Development sector. Therefore, we would like to question him on his alleged involvement in these affairs. I would like to stress that as this is not a criminal case, we do not wish to indict him at the moment. The position being taken is that we would keep the defendant in this country, so that he does not pose a security threat to other nations."

"Furthermore," he added. "I would like to raise the point that the state has no obligation to surrender this man to the Borginian authorities; as he was arrested here, the state's legal authority takes precedent."

"Thank you, Mr Blackquill." The judge paused, before addressing him again, frowning. "Incidentally, were you not previously involved in the Phantom case?"

"I was." Simon swallowed. "In 2020, prior to my incarceration."

"Yes, I thought it was that. I am well aware of the UR-1 incident." he eyed Simon over the rims of his glasses. "I apologise for that particular injustice done onto you."

 _It was a choice I made._ Simon lowered his head. "It is quite alright, Your Honour."

The judge nodded. He moved onto to ask for evidence from the plaintiffs.

Klaark continued. "Your Honour, we have a statement issued by our government formally asking for the extradition. I'd like to add it to the court record."

The file was passed to the judge. Simon raised an eyebrow; they hadn't shown that at their meeting a week ago. "I'm sorry, Your Honour, but the prosecution was not made aware of this information beforehand. Had this statement been passed through earlier then it would have gone through Washington DC, not here."

"The prosecution raises a good point. Ms Klaark, what is the meaning of this?"

She opened her mouth. Then promptly closed it. Another male voice piped up. "This issue was on such short notice and the request so soon, it was necessary to present it today. My apologies." Simon looked at the speaker. Birken. He was tapping his thumb against his index finger; just as he had done last week. Same one-two-three pattern.

"May I interject?" asked Simon. The judge nodded. "Borginia has yet to ratify an extradition treaty with this country. The plaintiffs would have to provide evidence that their request has passed through diplomatic channels in the capital."

The judge nodded. "You raise a good point, Mr Blackquill. Ms Klaark, do you have anything verifying this?"

"A verification?" she echoed. She frowned. "This request was approved by the government in Skande."

"I understand. But has it been approved by Washington DC? By the Borginian ambassador and his American counterpart?"

"...No."

"I see. Then I'm afraid your request for extradition will have to be rejected."

"What do you mean, Your Honour? The request came from our country, shouldn't that be accepted?"

"Not in this situation. As I have just asked, Ms Klaark, and Mr Blackquill has said, the request from Borginia's government is not enough. It would need to be ratified by a diplomat representing Borginian affairs in America. That duty falls to the Ambassador." The judge leaned forward. "Have you made an attempt to contact the Ambassador?"

"As my colleague said, this was on such short notice, we–"

Simon cut her off. "Your bureau contacted the Prosecutor's Office a fortnight ago. I would've assumed then that you had engaged with the Ambassador." he passed the transcript to the bailiffs. "My superior, Edgeworth-dono, received a phone call from these officials detailing who Erikh Qvinn is. May I inform the court that we have yet to see valid proof that the man in front of us is the so-called Erikh Qvinn?"

"We provided the Prosecutor's Office with Erikh Qvinn's file."

"In which a significant portion of the information was redacted. Not even his place of birth is accessible." Simon said, pulling out a manila envelope. "If you will."

The file was handed to the bailiff who then passed it to the judge. The judge took a moment to read through the evidence Blackquill had provided. He nodded his head at intervals. Around the room, fingers tapped away on laptop keyboards. If the journalists could not take photos and record, the least they could do was write.

Finally, the judge adjusted his glasses and spoke. "...Ms Klaark, this appears to be a fault on the part of your delegation."

"Your Honour?" her eyebrows were raised in confusion. Beside her, Blackquill saw the flicker of a smirk on Birken's lips. He was still tap-tapping away.

He held up the documents. "Had you wished to extradite Erikh Qvinn properly, you would not have contacted the Prosecutor's Office in this county, as they do not have jurisdiction over this matter. Instead, you would have either contacted your American counterpart in Washington DC, had you suspected this man was a Borginian citizen, or your government would have contacted Interpol directly for you to claim custody of him."

The judge handed back the documents to the bailiff. "Moreover, from the transcript of the telephone call, it appears that this is a solo mission between yourself and your colleague. There is no indication that you are acting on behalf of any government authority. I have not heard of intelligence services broadcasting their suspects in this manner."

He paused, peering at the plaintiffs over the rims of his glasses. He slowly continued, selecting his words carefully. "I can only assume you are here with ill intent."

The gallery erupted at that last statement. Simon surveyed his surroundings; indeed, the journalists and reporters appeared to be talking frantically amongst themselves. Some were leaning over the gallery with their voice recorders whirring.

 _It isn't implausible. Much as_ he _would have..._ "Order!"

 _Much as who would've what?_ It didn't matter. Simon had lost his train of thought.

"Order!" boomed the judge, slamming his gavel down forcefully. The gallery had begun to settle down. His eyes fell onto the defendant's chair. "I would like to invite the defendant to the stand."

A bored Qvinn was led to the stand. The judge addressed him.

"Mr Qvinn, as it now stands, you have two options. You are either to be extradited to Borginia, where you will await trial, or you will continue to be held by Interpol, and questioned about your activities in America." The judge extended a hand in his direction. "Do you have any requests, or comments to make? Comments that you would like this court to hear?"

A dull, deep voice emerged from the man. "With all due respect, Judge, maybe the Republic of Borginia should be held accountable for the crimes they claim I have committed. After all," he shrugged. "I was only following their orders."

The gallery erupted once more. Simon's eyes widened. Qvinn was smirking 一 a perfect copy of Simon's smirk, _of course he'd know how, the bastard, he's been with me a year_ 一 perhaps the one emotion he'd expressed in the entirety of the proceedings. The sound of the gavel banging could not be heard.

"Order! It is like a madhouse in here! Order!"

As the gallery quietened down for the second time, Klaark began to speak. "The Republic of Borginia is concerned about the handling of sensitive material and espionage outside its borders. We maintain as a state that the protection and safety of our citizens is of utmost importance and that the data leaked by Erikh Qvinn could have had disastrous consequences on a national and international level."

Simon responded. "If you are very much concerned about national security, then fear not. Under Interpol's jurisdiction, the details of Erikh Qvinn's crimes would be revealed and he would receive a fair trial at the International Criminal Court in the Hague." he tapped a finger to his temple. "All I can gather from your argument, is that you merely wish to eliminate this man."

"Do not misconstrue my words, Prosecutor!"

"I am not misconstruing your words. I am merely concerned for the defendant, should he be placed in your custody."

 _Concerned? Bloody hell, what are you saying?_ He saw a flicker of a smile of Qvinn's face greet him. Breathe in. Breathe out.

Klaark's nostrils flared. "I will not have slander!"

The gavel banged. "I ask that the plaintiffs calm down. Mr Blackquill raises yet another good point. I am not convinced of your intentions here, Ms Klaark, nor am I convinced of Borginia's stellar human rights record."

"But, Your Honour–"

He raised a hand before she could argue. "This is no longer a matter for this court. Any pressing affairs your nation may have can be taken up with the United Nations Security Council. Since we are going around in circles here, I'd like to move to the verdict. Mr Blackquill, do you have any closing remarks you wish to make before I pass down my verdict?"

Simon shook his head.

"Then I think we have heard quite enough." the judge harrumphed. "The resolution submitted by the Borginian delegation is hereby rejected. The defendant, Erikh Qvinn, will be taken into custody by Interpol forces, to await interrogation at a further date."

The slam of the gavel rang through the courtroom.

"Court is adjourned."


	9. 8: Questioning

**Chapter 8: Questioning**

* * *

 **January 31, 2028**

* * *

The balcony didn't provide much solace.

There was a view, at least, from Aura's apartment, of other brutalist skyscrapers with dimly lit shopfronts and names of supermarkets lining the road. Some trees. Pavement. Cars. The air smelt horrendously polluted; winter smog seeped into Simon's nostrils and he wrinkled his nose. It was eight p.m.

Eight p.m. at prison meant evening roll-call and quiet time. So right now, Simon didn't quite know what to do with himself. After the verdict was announced, he'd gone back to the office, filed the case paperwork, gone down to the cafeteria to get an egg salad sandwich for lunch, and then answered some emails. It had all been very methodical until it was time to leave, when he realised he had a place to go back to. He could have stayed, and worked a bit longer, and maybe tried to translate some Borginian documents. But custom, or rather, Edgeworth's new policy, dictated that unless there was a massive conference, the office would be closed after seven p.m.

And so here he was, in _his_ own flat, without a clue as to what to do. He hadn't made dinner, as the egg salad sandwich had sufficed to keep him satiated, so that was off the list of things to do. He hadn't gone shopping because Aura had left plenty of _stuff_ behind. And he hadn't gone to bed yet because...

His phone rang from inside the bedroom. That was why he hadn't gone to bed yet. Eight p.m meant evening roll-call and quiet time, so no; no calling at this hour, no texts, no nothing. He moved back into the flat, intending to let it keep incessantly ringing. Still, he checked the caller ID for good measure, and then grimaced.

Athena was ringing him.

He hovered over the button for a moment, hesitant. He didn't mind texting her sporadically, or even meeting up with her on occasion – though they had not done that in at least three weeks – but calling...it introduced something new. There was something about phone calls he didn't quite like; perhaps it was the feeling of being trapped? An intrusion of sorts, being intruded on in his quiet hours – it was after eight after all – and eight p.m. at prison meant evening roll-call and quiet time...

After the seventh ring, he responded with a tentative "Hello?"

"Hey..." came the voice on the other line, equally as uncertain in tone. "Am I calling at a bad time?"

"No...no..." he mumbled. _Yes, it's a bad time._

Athena cleared her throat on the other end. "I wanted to see how the appeal went? You asked me to check in with you."

Simon furrowed his eyebrows. _Did I?_ Details of text messages weren't something he kept in mind. "Ah, I see," he responded, not entirely sure of what he was saying.

The line grew silent on the other end for a few seconds. "...Did you forget that?" she finally asked.

"Hm," he responded, neither indicating yes or no.

"So, how was it?"

"It went fine. We have custody of the Phantom now."

"Well, that's good, no?"

 _No, it isn't._ "Yes. Very good."

"So what now?"

 _I have to deal with him._ "Interpol will take control."

"That's good. You'll meet new people then."

 _I already have._

"...Simon?"

He realised he hadn't responded to her last statement. This is why he didn't like phone calls; momentary silence meant worry and concern, and he was having none of it tonight.

"I'm tired. I'm going to bed," he announced. Not a lie.

"Oh, okay. Um, good night."

He hung up without repeating the greeting, and set the phone down on the bed. Simon swallowed the growing pit in his stomach. Not that the feeling would go away. Maybe turning off the phone would ease him. He rubbed at his ear, red and numb from the pressure he'd been applying to it. He closed the balcony door that he'd kept open. A loud bang resonated through the room for a second. The bedroom door shuddered behind him.

He padded into the living room. Perhaps, something to read would lull him to sleep. Aura's place didn't have much in abundance, apart from books. It was something of a lifesaver. He eyed them on the bookshelf. _Transformational Syntax_ , he mused, coupled with _Morphology_ and _Mathematical Linguistics._ Metis' books, no doubt, perhaps from her Master's degree. He quietly removed them from the shelf, heading back to the bedroom, and set them aside on the bedside table.

After stripping down to an old faded t-shirt and boxer briefs, and getting ready for bed, Simon untied his hair, carding through the thick strands; straggly and in need of a brush. But honestly, the temptation was low. So, he climbed into bed, with a book. Linguistics was interesting enough; he'd taken it as a module in university, and found it quite fascinating. Not to mention his mother being a linguist herself. But familial sentiment wasn't necessary.

As he started to read, he felt his mind wander, to events of the day. Not just events of the day, but as his eyes scanned the technical jargon, he lost his concentration, extricating himself from the thoughts of meals in prison and the way he'd attempted to read at night against the moonlight, eyes straining. Aura, no doubt, doing the same. The selection of books would probably be much more varied in her correctional facility. Words felt like lead; and Simon didn't appreciate the fact he couldn't concentrate. He set the book down, and turned off the light.

Sleep did not come easy to him. Not that it ever had, given the last seven years and now being brought back into a world outside cells and damp grey corridors. But just once since he had been released, he wished for sleep to greet him. Today had gone on long enough and he wanted nothing more than to rest...to just rest and not think.

Yet, no matter how many times he willed himself into sleep, his eyes shut and his hands gripping the bed sheets, his mind simply refused to cooperate. He tried to focus on his breathing...to focus on breathing slowly and deeply and on nothing else. But sleep just wouldn't come. His chest was constricted and his lower body tingled and he tiredly, angrily, pulled the covers off.

 _Bloody hell._ He dragged himself to the bathroom.

Without switching the light on, he fumbled around, feeling for the sink. He managed to turn the tap on, letting the water run to a desirably freezing temperature. He let his hands meet the water as he cupped them, bringing it to his face, freshening him up. He did this three more times, before he breathed a sigh, and steadied his hands on the sink.

Without seeing it, he could hear the water as it sloshed into the sink and continued down the drain, gurgling down the pipes. It gave him momentary comfort to listen to it. Then he switched off the tap and reached for a towel to dry himself. Perhaps having done this, he would be able to get some sleep.

* * *

Tomorrow came, and Simon, having managed to catch just a couple of hours of sleep eventually, arrived at the office. He hadn't bothered to get ready properly, opting to shower and shave in the office's facilities in the basement above the underground car park, which housed a meditation room Edgeworth had installed in his tenure as Chief Prosecutor. Something about the need for relaxation in the workplace — another one of his reforms — and a place away from the stresses of work life in a fast-paced firm. Admirable, but Simon wondered whether it was actually being put to use.

Freshened up, face gaunt but the stubble shaved and his hair washed and brushed, he made his way upstairs to his own office. The morning light had only just managed to surface through the fog, bathing his office in its greyness. Evidence boxes were piled in a corner next to the window. Law books on the sofa. He had yet to call Skye about any new updates.

Logging in to office email, a flood engulfed his inbox. Press alerts, and meetings. It hadn't been 24 hours since the hearing. Ignoring them, he selected the important ones to filter.

 _Subject: Morning appointment_

 _Dear Simon,_

 _Please come see me at 10. I wish to discuss yesterday's proceedings with you._

 _Regards,_

 _Miles Edgeworth_

Right, he hadn't managed to meet with his superior yesterday, since he'd holed himself up in his office. Up he went, then.

Edgeworth greeted him with a polite smile, extending his hand to the sofa. Routine as usual.

"Good morning, Blackquill."

"Good morning." he replied, taking his seat. No tea today, just talk, it seemed. The chief prosecutor had already placed a light blue casefile on the coffee table.

Edgeworth confirmed as much, as he slipped into discussion. "The Judge's Council, with Chief Justice Chambers' approval, has given the green light to proceed with the interrogation whenever you see fit. Preferably in the first few weeks of February, as the caseloads have shifted and we restart the monthly court cycle."

"I see. In that case, I shall prepare for that. I can arrange a meeting with him, and proceed from there. Whether he is willing to cooperate, will be something to keep in mind."

It was more of a mental note than anything. They had to be realistic, of course, given the nature of international relations. That, and the newspapers prying into every corner. Of course, an international spy would cause a ruckus, he noted to himself.

"Indeed. The trial revealed its own things. Namely, that the Borginians place importance on their national security. The Phantom, or rather Erikh Qvinn, is a threat essentially, regardless of us having custody over him." Edgeworth tapped at the file. "We have to tread lightly. Negotiate, I suppose."

"Yes." Simon shifted in his seat. "I fear...I may not be the best candidate for this, Edgeworth-dono. Given my prior affiliation with the man, and yesterday's proceedings."

Edgeworth eyed him curiously through the rims of his glasses. "Your performance yesterday was fine," he moved to sit down opposite Simon. "I do understand why you may be apprehensive but after all, it was you who came to me to put this matter to bed."

"Indeed," was all Simon had to say.

There was a momentary silence.

"Mr. Blackquill–" Miles stopped himself and shook his head. "Simon, really, how are you?"

Blackquill eyed him. _Surely, I haven't indicated any cause for concern._ And Edgeworth, noting the forcefulness of his question and the discomfort, elaborated. "I mean, settling in. I worry I've thrust this entire matter into your hands without a proper discussion."

The second person of the week to express concern over his well-being. But this time he couldn't extricate himself from the situation as he had been able to last night.

He hadn't spent much time at Aura's flat, granted, with the sleepless nights and the work-filled days forcing him out of there. Aura was just as spartan as he was. After all, that was what she knew after the death. There would be no more...no more shared flats with joint leases. They weren't a sentimental pair, even with the keychain on the apartment keys that she'd bought in Japan on a trip with Metis — back when they'd been engaged ㅡ and the silver ring and photograph tucked away in the bedside drawer. And there would've been an alternate universe where _they'd've been happy_. But such a universe did not exist — seven years of his prime spent rotting away in a dank cell.

"...Simon?" Edgeworth's concerned voice pulled him out of his reverie.

"It's alright, Edgeworth-dono." He hated the honorific now. Hated the distance. Hated the solitude he'd surrounded himself with, when he buried himself into his work. _Work is all you know now, after years of incarceration out of your own choice for your...niece._ He kept an unreadable expression steady on his face. He didn't elaborate whether alright referred to his accommodation or his work.

"I shall tend to the Phantom," he whispered as he rose, referring to the earlier conversation. He didn't look at Edgeworth.

"Have a good day, sir," was all he said in the end, with a stiff nod before leaving the office.

* * *

The dank interrogation room was depressing to return to. Aside from being an overall bleak room, with cement walls and tiles that had not seen a mop and bucket in years, with the grime poking through the dips in the tiles, and a smell not dissimilar to chloroform, it acted as a holding pen for memories. Of long-gone prisoners, who'd been visited throughout their sentences, not entirely sure of when they would be executed; or of prisoners who were innocent and were wasting their lives inside; or of...sporadic visits, as in Simon's case. Sporadic visits and conversations with Edgeworth behind bars, when he'd peered at him through his glasses, the same look of concern etched on his face as he'd done so this morning.

And of...that Foolbright with booming laughter.

But he'd never truly met Fulbright. No. And try as he might to conjure up an image of a man truly passionate for justice and rehabilitation, he was left with the destroyed mask in the courtroom in December.

His leg bounced. He hadn't been back here since the day he left. The day he hadn't expect to leave, with the noose around his neck, pulling the life out of him. With his neck snapping much the same way as the door on the other side opened.

The chair legs scraped horrendously. Simon winced.

"Hello, Prosecutor," A voice. Not Fulbright's. He had adopted a transatlantic accent. "What do you want?"

Qvinn raised his head at those words. Sallow cheeks, bald, and bloodshot eyes; dark circles under his eyes streaked purple and black, and his skin pale. He looked sick.

Simon cleared his throat. "I have to come discuss the terms presented yesterday in court," he laced his fingers together. "As you would recall, you are now in the custody of Interpol, with the prospect of interrogation. The judge has concurred that now is a suitable time to question you, for your actions in this state, and to a larger extent, your occupation."

Qvinn did not react in any manner. A salt pillar could have replaced him in the few seconds Simon had spoken.

Simon slowly continued. "...While this shall...be approached through legal means, I would like to ask you myself as to why you have willingly placed yourself in this current predicament as opposed to scurrying off to some godforsaken corner of the world."

Again, salt-pillar-man sat there, not looking at anything in particular. Then he shrugged at Simon.

"I have no reason."

Blackquill opened his mouth to ask another question, but Qvinn continued. "The other day I woke up, and I ate some disgusting yoghurt. As I ate breakfast, I thought to myself, that I would betray my superiors. I just decided there was no need to it anymore."

There was a brief pause after the sentence passed between them, he leaned back in his chair, drawing circles on the table with his finger. "Mr Blackquill. This was the same way I decided to betray you too."

Simon swallowed, training the man with an unreadable expression. Qvinn shrugged again.

"For those two actions, I did not have orders. So I exercised free will." Qvinn paused and then nodded. "Yes, that is the right phrase."

"So nothing in particular prompted you to accept your current situation?"

"No."

Qvinn inspected his palms now, some imaginary freckle proving quite interesting. "Can I ask something." It was phrased more as a statement than a question.

"What is it?"

"Are you the right person to be questioning me." and again, before Simon could ask, Qvinn continued. "I read your case file, you know that."

They stared at each other for a moment; the tug of a smile on Qvinn's lips that was always so chilling. Eyes trained on him. It was a haunting scrutiny; the very same every night outside his cell door; the eyes that always watched as he pored over papers. His leg bounced again.

"Anyway," Qvinn started, the smile pulling up further to the corners of his mouth. "I am willing to share information provided my identity isn't compromised."

He splayed his hands out in front of him. "I am an open book."

 _Yes, in justice we trust indeed._ "I see," Simon mumbled. "You will be sent a copy of the terms of your interrogation procedures to your cell later this week."

The smile disappeared from Qvinn's face. "You are not questioning me today."

"No." The chair scraped; Simon rose. There was no courtesy of eye contact this time around. "This meeting is over."

Salt-pillar-man was back; Blackquill heard as he rose silently, and complied to the cuffs being placed on him again. He heard footsteps and then the clang of the door as it shut behind him. He let out a long breath from his nostrils, before stepping outside himself.

When he got out of the room, Simon had made a beeline for the bathroom. Past the urinals, and the cubicles and straight for the sinks. No soap dispensers - he didn't need them. Tap on. Let the water run. Cup his hands. Wash his face. Rinse and repeat three times. Tap off.

No paper towels. Only hand dryers. He shook his hands to remove excess water, rubbing them on his trousers as well, for good measure. Then he left the bathroom.

* * *

Simon was halfway back to the office when his phone rang on the bus. He checked the caller ID. Detective Skye. It was twelve p.m. Twelve p.m. meant work at the prison, two hours before phone calls began. It was work now. This call was at the right time, and he had been meaning to contact her.

He picked up. "Biscuits, how have things been progressing?"

"Hey to you too, Blackquill," he could hear rustling on the other end. Snackoos probably. "Just wanted to let you know what's up with the murder case."

"Yes, go on." The bus moved again, and he steadied his hand on the handle, thumb hovering close to the stop button. Three more stops.

"Right, so as you know we've hit a bit of a dead end, but Agent Lang has just informed me that gaining custody of Qvinn means that we have access to Hawthorn's casework simply because of the circumstantial nature of the motive at the moment. He said it's not normally protocol but y'know, he was happy to give database access."

Simon hummed in agreement over the line, Ema continued. "Because of yesterday's court day, I decided to look into things. Most of the stuff's redacted anyway, but from what I've managed to get, Hawthorn's work covered a major organisation, alongside some other international incidents. He was rarely, if ever, in town. He worked with another law firm in Frankfurt."

"Any details on this organisation?"

"You probably know more than I do. It's called Skande Espionage and Intelligence Locators. SEIL, for short. Pronounced like 'seals', the animals. It's a Borginian company."

Simon eyes widened. He pressed the stop button. He lowered his voice. "Now, why would an international lawyer be prying into Borginia's secret service, pray tell?"

"That, you'd have to give me more time on. It's basically marketed as a shell company on any web searches if you try and search for it."

"I do hope we're not implying what we're implying. If that is the case, then we find ourselves…" Simon trailed off, and the bus doors opened. He got out, greeted once again with the smog of polluted Los Angeles. He changed tack. "I was aware of his work on intelligence services in Borginia but I was not aware of this close connection to this particular one."

"Yeah. Exactly. I mean, all the other organisations were y'know, just IT companies or those that dealt with armaments. Espionage. But not like this."

"Indeed," replied Simon.

"Look, we're gonna have to tread lightly and legally here. You dealing with him?"

 _Him._ He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. The pit in his stomach rumbled again. "As far as Edgeworth-dono's concerned, I suppose...I am."

"Okay. Just remember to fill in the paperwork for that beforehand. The guards there in solitary can be really anal about that."

"Duly noted," and before he could forget, "Ah...Thank you for keeping me apprised, Biscuits. I shall work on that now."

"Sure. I'll swing by later and put the casework in your tray. Or if you're not there, then the cubbyhole."

"Cubby...hole?" He remarked, trying out the words on his tongue. He had never heard of such a thing in a workplace environment. Yes, certainly, he recalled as a child using cubby holes he'd purchased from a massive furniture retailer, to store his clothes and toys in. But Scandinavian ergonomics aside, the word eluded him.

"It's on the first floor. It's where we detectives put documents that you need, out of hours. Have you seen the rows of basically cupboards down next to the reception? It's like a safe basically. We slot in documents and you open it up with a code. Basically a tight-security mailbox. It's in the lobby, with all the armchairs to meet clients. And those really ugly orchids."

He couldn't recall such a location in the office. Well, maybe the 'really ugly orchids', as the detective had so elegantly put it. Miserable plants, was what Simon always had in mind when confronted by them. Perhaps an Edgeworth-era policy the man had installed. Ergonomics and meditation. Whatever else Edgeworth had installed, he'd soon find out for himself. "I cannot say I was ever aware of it. But, yes, I suppose you might as well place it in there."

Ema chuckled on the other line. "Guess you learn a new thing everyday. Alright, I'll do that."

"Yes, very well then." Simon allowed himself a small chuckle. "Good day, Biscuits."

"Good day to you too, Snarky."

As soon as the call ended, Simon found himself in what was apparently the lobby. The detective had described it correctly. Ugly orchids and all intact. The sofas were of a burgundy shade and Simon mused that it appeared his superior had added his own interior decorations into the workplace. Truly a fascinating character was Miles Edgeworth.

The row of cubby holes beckoned to him, lined with what appeared to be letterboxes, precisely as the detective had described. As though they had been removed, screws and all, from an apartment building's lobby and placed them in this office, simply with a few hundred rows lining two walls. Alphabetically by surname as well, he noted, as he saw his name marked close to the door, just surpassed by a few surnames. He'd need to acquire the code...or key for them. The sunlight streamed through, bathing the room in an orange hue. It was getting late. He hadn't eaten today yet.

Acquiring what appeared to be some sort of bento box from the cafeteria, he climbed up the stairs two steps at a time to his office and slammed the door shut, dropping his satchel and lunch, he leaned against the door. He stood there, letting his arms fall to his sides as he concentrated on breathing. Closing his eyes, he tried to focus on white noise. But alas, to no avail. He pushed himself off the wall, picking up his satchel and lunchbox again.

Upon sitting down at his desk, Simon noticed the blue folder in his in-tray. Not Detective Skye; she had mentioned the cubbyhole just now. This would have to be Edgeworth's secretary. Sure enough, it was, as he leafed through the pages. It was a dossier on the rules and regulations surrounding interrogation conduct. A copy of which he would have to give Qvinn later this week. He set to work.

The next few hours consisted of Simon underlining various key notes, scribbling onto the legal pad notes on interrogation conduct. He also made a mind map of Hawthorn's death, drawing a straight line between the victim's name and SEIL. A strange coincidence. He munched through his rice and chicken, occasionally alternating it with salad and vegetables. It had been a while since his last encounter with Japanese food that hadn't consisted of just salty shochu ramen.

Work and food had made a welcome change nonetheless. By the time he had signed off the last piece of paper of the interrogation forms to consent to his role as interrogator, he could definitely say he felt calmer than he had last night. The paperwork to hand in to the guards was also complete.

He concluded his day by closing the folders, and placing them in his satchel, before turning off the light. As he reached the lobby, he paused for a moment at the cubby holes, before deciding against picking up what Skye would have dropped off by now. Tomorrow then.

It was eight p.m. again when he got home. Evening roll-call and leisure time. This would mean dinner time now.

He rummaged around in the fridge; some of Taka's jerky in a box, and some vegetables. Mushrooms and bell peppers. If there was perhaps some form of...tofu, then he could consider a stir fry. Aura didn't seem the type to keep such a product in her house, and he hadn't done much shopping for the flat since he'd signed it over into his name. He checked the cupboards. Flour. Sugar. No pasta or rice.

 _What on earth does Aura eat?_ He asked himself exasperatedly. He sighed, closing the cupboards and the fridge door. No dinner tonight then. He would have to go shopping...for food and other items. Household items. It was a concept that eluded him, what with the...three square meals a day and his thin mattress he had grown accustomed to. He almost missed the damn routine.

But right now, he could not think anymore. He could not think of food, or toiletries to purchase, or meetings to attend. Right now, Simon wanted this day very much over, and he would not let his insomniac state invade him this evening. He stripped down to his boxer briefs, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed. Sleep soon followed, gluing his eyes shut and his mind stopped racing, instead categorising in his subconscious. Finally asleep.

Midnight blue had engulfed him.


	10. 9: Historiography

**Chapter 9: Historiography**

* * *

 **February 7, 2028**

* * *

Monday lulled by for a change, instead of crashing into Simon's face in the form of a 7.00 a.m. alarm. As he got dressed, ready to head to the state prison, he remembered he was out of food in the kitchen. He had made some mental note of this the night before, but exhaustion had dragged him to bed by then.

Managing the flat had honestly not been much on his mind this weekend, what with how busy the week had been. He had managed to send the interrogation paperwork to Qvinn, receiving a signature in return with one letter that distinctly like a "B", set to start questioning today, and he had begun cataloging evidence and notes with Skye and Edgeworth before the appeal had swept them up; the latter glad that he was making progress despite everything. Still concerned for his well-being, but Simon did not hold him to that.

He finally managed to visit his sister as well, glad for the change from glass-panelled meetings to simply sitting together in the prison visitor centre, in plastic chairs with cups of miserable coffee. Seeing her in the orange jumpsuit that was prison garb was nothing short of surreal. That, and her hair was growing out of its purple dye at the roots, and pulled back into a simple ponytail.

"How are you?" he had asked.

His sister had scoffed. "About as well as I can be. I mean, for this sort of place, it's not bad for thinking."

"No," he leaned back. "I assume you have a wider selection of books to peruse as well. I can bring some over for you if you want."

"If you want to, sure." she replied, not paying much attention to his words. Her focus was solely on the coffee in front of her.

Well, he'd have to pursue some line of conversation, didn't he? "I've been taking up reading again," he said. Then, for good measure, "I hadn't realised you'd kept a lot of Metis' books."

Indeed, it had caught Aura's attention. She levelled her gaze with his. "They occupied my thoughts at night," was all she said on the matter.

Talking about books wasn't going to get him very far. Well, he could pursue the only available subject of conversation. "Speaking of...her," he swallowed. "I do not know if I should make this information available to you, but, I am in the process of, well, interrogating her killer."

Aura had merely nodded, processing the information.

He then added, "I will, of course, inform you of any relevant developments when there is clearance. For now, I'm afraid you'll be kept in the dark."

She tipped back her head, claiming the last dregs of her coffee. She set the styrofoam cup down with a disgusted look on her face; as though she'd been sucking a particularly sour lemon. "Honestly, Simon, I don't need to know. It's enough he's caught. Do with it what you will."

"Very well then," he nodded, hands fidgeting with his own half-empty cup.

He leaned back in his seat. This conversation was more than over. He looked around, surveying the room. A vending machine, guards posted at every corner in their light blue garb, and a dozen prisoners and their families conversing in the lull of the Saturday afternoon. He scratched at his arm. "...Have you-have you considered visiting the psychologist here?" he finally asked, tentatively.

She eyed him slowly. "No." Thin eyebrows raised. "Why, are you considering seeing one?"

"No."

Fingers drummed on the plastic table. "Well, if you're considering it, you've had to handle a lot more shit than I have."

He watched as she fidgeted with the coffee cup, twirling it around in her hands. She shifted in her seat.

"On another note..." she started. "...The flat. I don't care what you do with it. You can move out if you want."

His brows furrowed. "Why would I do that?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

The fingers twirled around the cup again. He watched as it was catapulted into the air, landing back on the table with a dull thud. "Well, if you're so intent on staying there, do with it what you like. I don't care if you want to paint it black like some emo shit, or...I don't know. Make it your place."

She crinkled the cup, not looking at him.

"I see."

Cup well and truly abused, Aura set it to the side. "So what'll you do for the rest of the day?" she asked.

"Nothing, really, I suppose."

"How nice."

They had said their goodbyes soon after and Simon returned home. His weekend had been nothing short of uneventful. He slept, trudged through _Transformational Syntax_ , and decided psychology tomes would be best to acquire. He didn't go to the library, or the bookshop for that matter, to acquire said books. Or do the food shopping. Or start on Aura's suggestion of decorating. He had simply shut off for the weekend.

And now it was already Monday. A lull, rather than a crash, despite the bumpy bus ride he was now taking.

His phone pinged with a notification, and he checked it.

 _Athena [8:01AM] Hey, just checking in. How are you? Are you sleeping?_

He swiped the message to the left, selecting the option to remove the message from his screen. He did not need to be bothered with things cluttering his lock screen. Besides, it was work now. Nine a.m. meant breakfast and work, according to the prison timetable. That still rang true for now.

When he entered the interrogation room, Qvinn was already waiting for him, ready to talk. The man gave him a flicker of a polite smile — perhaps something he had practised in his mirror — and watched as Simon set himself up.

Simon set down his satchel, presumably on the ground next to the chair, Qvinn could not quite tell by the thud alone, and took out some files. He discarded them carelessly onto the desk, throwing a couple of ballpoint pens on top of them. He then straightened his tie and brought the tape recorder closer to him, from where it had sat on the far left corner of the table.

Then Simon switched the recording machine on, allowing it to warm up to their surroundings.

"What would you like to ask me about today." stated Qvinn. "As I said before, I am an open book."

Simon pulled his chair in. "I wanted to start our interrogations by gaining some context. Your superiors at the trial mentioned a conflict between Borginia and Cohdopia. Would you be able to explain that?" adding, "It would be of use to me to develop my understanding from a native than consult the literature."

Qvinn drummed his fingers on the tabletop, looking around him. "You recall our conversation last week," he said.

"Yes?"

The man pressed his fingers together, practising some sort of pout. Simon swallowed. His throat was dry - he ought to start bringing water with him in his satchel.

"I said that I am a traitor. Of course then I do not know if you took it seriously."

Simon chose not to respond and the man in front of him shrugged. "Well, anyway, I guess I meant traitor not just in the way I worked with you, but just in how I work anyway."

"I would derive from that then that you have been supplying intelligence to Cohdopia?'

Qvinn nodded. "The Cohdopians give me better offers, in exchange for information. Military intelligence."

Simon nodded and folded his arms.

"Do you want a historical account."

"If you could, that would be helpful. Preferably in chronological order."

Salt-pillar-man returned for a brief moment. "This is not different from how you conduct your interrogations outside," he said.

"What are you implying?"

A smirk graced the corners of his lips. "Maybe I was expecting you to act differently, than when I worked with you."

 _It had started._ Qvinn was hunched over, giving a little pout, and Simon could just almost see him wearing the tinted glasses and the white suit and the...

And…

Then...Qvinn shrugged again, and didn't say anything. Simon didn't know what to do with this follow-up to his sentence. Had he expected the Phantom to blow up in his face? Yes, the man was daunting...and unnerving, but...

But Qvinn took no notice of him. He just stared at the table, opened his mouth, and began to speak slowly and robotically.

"In 2009, Cohdopia erupted into inter-ethnic civil war. A Babahlese soldier shot an Allebahstian civilian in Primidux. War. Borginia was allied with Allebahstian military forces. Troops conscripted, into Allebahstian groups. The army supplied arms and air support. Russia backed the Babahlese Separatist Army. The Flower Corps versus the Winged Resistance."

He was about to continue when Simon posed him a question. "Were you among those conscripted?"

"I do not have an answer to that."

"Your profile provided by your superiors after the appeal said you completed military service in Cohdopia in…" Simon delved under his interrogation notes to find the photocopied document from the meeting. "...in 2010." he announced, setting the paper back down. "Would that shed some light onto your memories?"

"I am not the topic of conversation," came the flat response.

Seeing as pursuing this line of question would lead him nowhere now, Simon dropped it. Qvinn, satisfied with the silence, continued his robotic timeline of events.

"War over. Ceasefire agreed by the UN. Demilitarised zone established in 2012. Country split in two." Qvinn raised his head to look at Simon. Simon Blackquill had a very pale face, he noted. He decided to change tack. "Do you want me to talk about my employer?"

He watched as Simon furrowed his eyebrows at the question and then nod, supported by a hoarse "Yes," and then, "If you are willing to disclose such information."

Qvinn leaned back in his seat, his shackled hands falling to his groin. Simon watched as the man's pale face receded into its bland and blank expression. Salt-pillar-man, about to make a speech.

"SEIL was created out of the civil war. Joint effort by Borginia and the new Kingdom of Allebahst. Diplomatic alliance. Allebahst wanted to build their state. Best way? Industrial espionage. Babahl had a technology sector. Why not. Borginia could use that as well.

"SEIL had three branches at first. Borginian Secret Service, Allebahstian Secret Service, and Dual Corps. They wanted a good relationship with each other. But it is useless. Borginia and Cohdopia have always been enemy states in history. Good relations means better access. Means easier espionage."

He splayed his hands out on the table. "Then reunification in 2019 stopped that. Espionage on each other carried on, but Allebahst merged with Babahl into its own national intelligence service. Distance. A joint secret agreement, and SEIL was now only Borginian."

Salt-pillar-man stopped for a moment, allowing Simon time to finish his notes. He continued. "Cohdopia approached me in 2020. After the reunification. They wanted to spy on Borginia. War was not something a new state needed." he paused, withdrawing his hands from the table, balling them into tight fists. "Political information, on its functions and governance. And military too. I think I was posing as an archivist. I can not remember."

The cold eyes fell on Simon. "I did not care. Whoever paid me most, I did it. Borginia, Cohdopia...does not matter. I had no allegiance. Not good for them. Good for me."

He paused, watching as Simon scribbled on the legal pad in chicken scratch, before he quipped. "My superiors asked me at the meeting if I understood the consequences of my actions. I told them I would rather eat shit than talk to them."

At that last sentence, Simon took his eyes off the paper to look at Qvinn when he said that. He half-expected the man to grin, in some overly confident manner, perhaps. But no, nothing.

Simon switched off the tape recorder after that. "Is that enough for you today?" asked Qvinn.

"Yes. That should suffice, in helping me develop the overall background," said Simon as he rose from his seat. He paused, before adding, "I shall set up a meeting later this week to discuss this further."

Salt-pillar-man stared at the wall. He had retreated into himself again. There was nothing Simon could quite do about it. Simple questions followed by...not so simple answers, and there was nothing more to say about it. It wasn't...monotony, but there was a lot left to be desired.

That being said...there was always next time. He had to pace himself, didn't he? That's what Edgeworth had said last week, before he'd clocked out for the weekend. To not rush the process. Even if it meant slowly packing away his belongings. Salt-pillar-man watched as his satchel reemerged from under the table, and Blackquill carefully put away the papers and pens, different to when he had come in.

The familiar sound of shackles being removed, the chair scraping, and Simon simply stared at the floor as he heard the receding footsteps. Qvinn was out of the room now. He exhaled sharply, before reaching for the door handle.

Well, that was that for today.

* * *

After his long meeting, Simon decided to finally do something about the state of his accommodation. It would be a way for him to quietly process what had just occurred, without ruminating heavily on it. Just simply keeping his head down on the bus, focusing on the landscape that surrounded him.

The sun filtered into the bus through the trees, occasionally blinding him. Biting wind painted an entirely different view on the weather in winter. It was quite deceptive. The roads could do with some work, given the amount of potholes and poorly conceived pathways. New tar and gravel mixing in with the old to create uneven routes that the bus bumped over; chairs rattling and people swaying on the rails as they stared dead-eyed at their phones.

Simon retrieved his phone from his coat pocket, and checked the lock screen. The time read 10:42 AM. No new messages, thankfully. He then unlocked it. There were, however, a good 306 unread emails. Mostly press, but he assumed there would be one or two important ones.

Indeed there was Detective Skye, who had attached a few more PDF files and photos, alongside the contents that he had retrieved from the cubbyhole last week on Thursday. He hadn't had the time to look through them, what with being swamped with the interrogation and Edgeworth assigning new cases as the month's court cycle started and cataloguing other evidence. There had been other paperwork too, and...it had been so hectic a week he had crashed onto his bed on Friday night and read, as he ate the remains of Aura's sugary chocolate cereal, before he threw out the carton. And then didn't buy new groceries.

Nothing from Edgeworth, which was a relief. But there was an email from Franziska von Karma. He wouldn't open it yet. He stowed the phone back in his pocket. He had made it to his stop just as the bus had jumped over one last pothole that sent him a few centimetres up into the air before being abruptly sat down again. Pulling himself up, he exited, and found himself outside...well, a hypermarket.

It was along a strip mall, designed much in the same way as service stations on motorways when he would go on road trips with his parents up north. They'd lived in London through his childhood, before the move to New York at 15, and then Los Angeles with his sister at 18. It was always to the industrial northern parts of England. It felt quite rudimentary to him at the time. But his sister and father loved it, so he had trudged along with it, kicking at the gravel as his mother told him to behave himself. There were rows of shops, all painted in this dull beige to suit the climate. A pet shop, which made him grimace again, the hypermarket, some gardening shops and a nail salon.

He sighed. It had then dawned on Simon that he had not gone shopping in years. Of course, he knew how to shop: pick up things off shelves, put them into a basket, and walk away. Unless you were the sort of person who stood blocking the aisle for a good few minutes trying to decide on what brand of tea to buy, before picking the same old brand as you would do every time you did the shopping. He knew of Saturday mornings spent doing the shopping with his mother, filling up the trolley with the usual necessities. A tedious chore, considering his mother was in the latter category of blocking aisles and determining what to buy in terms of the usual necessities. The usual necessities that he did not possess for the time being, because he'd been so...swamped in his work and without routine and handling his brain and…

It was just so easily forgotten; to take care of himself, that is.

And here he was, learning how to...take care of himself at a strip mall, when he ought to be back at the office answering emails, and debriefing Edgeworth and seeing what on earth was going on with Hawthorn's case that he still hadn't looked at.

Nevertheless, dilly-dallying on the matter would not get him anywhere. He had to be rational about this. He stomped in the direction of the hypermarket.

As soon as he entered he was mildly surprised by how normal – _Well, of bloody course it would be normal_ – it was inside. Small children toddling around the place with their parents to do the weekly shop; old women browsing at clothing too garish and too embarrassing to be found anywhere else; and teenagers bunking off, looking for packs of cigarettes. People dead-eyed everywhere.

 _Don't think. Get what you need and get out._

Simon made his way through the aisles. It was quite large all around; with a bakery slotted in next to kitchen appliances and fresh vegetables. He didn't need any of this. Just the bare essentials. Aura had made that much clear, at least implicitly then. He knew the way she gave him a once-over and mentally categorised his well-being. It was nothing new. Simon had learnt to manage his sister and she, in turn, tolerated his antics.

Necessities…food, laundry and toiletries. That was what the weekly shop was. A weekly shop he had not done for well over seven years. Seven years too late to be relearning the way society functioned. The way you had to move to get out of someone's way, as they carted their overloaded shopping trolley through the aisles.

Then there was the wide selection in products to purchase. So many damn tins of the same type of beans at ranging prices.

As he manoeuvred his way through people and products, he began to muse how much he missed the simplicity of hard beds, routine exercise, reading and three meals of slop a day. This faffing around was infuriating; dithering at aisles to determine what carton of eggs to purchase, or whether they were packed in recyclable cardboard cartons or not, or if they were brown or white eggs or free range or or or…

He could not take it at this point.

He stood still, legs firmly planted into the ground as he looked at the label of some chocolate bar. He needed to calm his mind down, and he'd gone to a stupid place to do it.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

He just had to not think. Just place items in the cart, and act like a normal man on a shopping trip. His attire didn't exactly make him blend in. Nor did the hair. The stares said as much. He wondered how many of these people had seen his mugshot on the evening news in the last few weeks.

And then Simon finally, finally made it to the checkout line.

He then realised he didn't have a bag. Well, his satchel, yes, but that was strictly for work. He wondered if they had paper bags. Better for the environment, quite durable, and easily recyclable. He looked around for a bag. In Europe they had these bags hooked on the ends of conveyor belts. Here, biodegradable plastic bags sat sadly on the ends of conveyor belts, neglected. And then...yes! They had them hooked onto the ends of another conveyor belt, and Simon snatched one up quickly. Then, a second bag for good measure.

The cashier gave him a polite smile as she scanned his items. Her name tag said Maria, and she had mousy brown hair tied up in a short ponytail. She had painted her fingernails midnight blue, he noted, as she scanned his items through. He didn't realise how long he had been staring at her till she'd rung him up for the price. Forty-five dollars, and twenty-five cents, she said. He took a moment to process the information before he handed over the cash. He needed to get a credit card, he reminded himself, and to make a bloody checklist of things he had to do outside his work life.

Then Simon set about arranging his purchases into the two brown paper bags. A set of dark blue towels in the bottom; some white bedsheets; a toothbrush; toothpaste; shampoo and conditioner; a set of razors and shaving cream in one bag. Then a carton of 10 eggs; tofu; soba noodles; potatoes; courgettes; frozen peas; onions; garlic; some salmon; seaweed and soy sauce in another. How...Japanese of him.

He exited the shop, exhaling perhaps the longest breath he'd ever held. The pit in his stomach rumbled.

It was then that Simon decided he would fully follow his sister's advice for the day. No, he was not going back to the office with his groceries, and he would not be admonished for it. Besides, Edgeworth had been concerned for his well-being. This should soothe him. Simon snorted at the thought, before turning left to inspect the other shops.

The rest of his afternoon consisted indeed of a much-needed shopping trip. He acquired some pots of paint — white and dark pewter grey — and some rollers. An apron, some cooking pots and a set of three knives, for the kitchen. For the office, an arranged tray of succulents that he could tend to. Now with three very full bags in one hand, and the pots of paint in the other, there was no other choice but to take a taxi home.

By this time of day, the sky was a little darker. Three p.m. and on the prison timetable that meant...going back to the prison ward. That meant going home now. For today at least. The flat was still sparse and dank, but he hoped his purchases could make it a more...suitable place to live in.

He went about putting the food in the fridge and cupboards. Then to put the towels and bedsheets in the washing machine – Aura thankfully had some washing detergent – and while that was going, he set up the clothes line on the bedroom balcony. Washing done, and on the line it went. Then he made dinner – baked salmon with courgettes – and started on a new book: _Underground_ by Haruki Murakami. After two chapters, satisfied he'd made a start, he put his plates in the dishwasher. Then for the rest of the evening, he tended to the succulents, watering them and plucking old leaves, ready to bring them into the office tomorrow.

At nine p.m. his bed called for him. After changing into sleepwear and a quick brush of his teeth and a floss, he was out like a light.

* * *

It was a couple of days later when Simon finally had a moment to settle down and review the investigation into Hawthorn's murder, and tend to his neglected emails.

 _Subject: More evidence_

 _Dear Simon Blackquill,_

 _Agent Lang and I have been investigating the Skande Espionage and Intelligence Locators, and we believed it to be of use to you to inform you of a recent connection we have established between the agency and a now-defunct smuggling ring._

 _Attached is the case file Miles Edgeworth worked on, alongside Jacob Hawthorn's scanned notes. Use them as you see fit._

 _Do not hesitate to ask for further assistance._

 _Regards,_

 _Franziska von Karma_

The email had come at a convenient time for him today. He had managed to set up a meeting with Detective Skye to go over the case. In spite of the jurisdiction of Hawthorn's case having shifted to being placed under Interpol's command, the officers were cooperating with the LAPD. Ema, as head investigator of the LAPD branch, appeared to be on working terms with Agent Lang and Prosecutor von Karma, which made for a suitable arrangement and the easy flow of information.

He had an hour before their meeting was due to start, so tending to some paperwork would be useful way to spend his time, and at ten in the morning, a knock on the door sounded.

"Enter." he said.

Detective Skye made her way in with coffee and case files. She said a quick "Hey", as she set down the coffee on his desk - two takeout coffee cups in a little cardboard container - and placed a ring binder in his in-tray. Taking one of the cups, she made herself comfortable on the sofa.

Simon looked up briefly at the detective; she was inspecting his office again as she usually did now. Not that he minded. In fact, Simon enjoyed her presence, and the way she carefully paid attention to detail, what with the little netsuke lining his bookshelf. No doubt, she would have noticed the new succulents on the cabinet under his window, beside some psychology tomes he had lined up and an English-Borginian dictionary. _A Very Short Introduction to Cohdopia_ and its counterparts _Borginia,_ and _The European Union_ , were stacked up on the other corner. He had finally managed to go to a bookshop last night.

Just as Simon had signed off on the last document, Ema, satisfied with her look-around, turned her attention towards more pressing matters, opening up her own identical ring binder.

Simon pulled the coffee cup and files towards him, opening the provided ring binder of information. He had already pulled up the interrogation notes on his laptop. In another tab, Hawthorn's online work profile.

"I wanted to start at the beginning to refresh ourselves. So, what have you found out more about of our victim?" he asked.

Ema turned over the pages in her binder. "Well, since we called, I managed to get a better outline on him. He was an international prosecutor, based in LA for the last few years since 2025, looking into Borginia. I found out he was part of the Borginia Tribunal, looking at war crimes committed by the state. The tribunal also met in Frankfurt, which is why he was also working there. He did six months rotation between here and there."

Simon nodded as Ema spoke. "The reason why he was handling missing persons reports and smuggling rings and those organisations and companies is because of that. Borginia had a civil war in the nineties, after the USSR broke up. There were reports of human rights violations and torture by the army. So, he was investigating that."

"Where was he based before Los Angeles?" he asked, reaching for a pen to mark down the key information.

"The Hague, and before that Primidux, Cohdopia's capital, actually."

"Was he looking at Borginia as a country or areas of government?"

"Well, the tribunal had different functions, of course. Because he got tasked with looking at war crimes with a team, he was looking at the military and internal service. National security."

"Then I would say that was where SEIL comes into play and why he had a wealth of information on them."

"Yeah, I'd say as much."

"Adding to that," Simon started, pointing his pen at the computer screen. " I received an email from von Karma-dono the other day."

Skye sipped at her coffee. "And?"

"Well, before broaching that topic, I wanted to further make mention of the interrogations I have been conducting."

"Yeah?" prompted Ema, as she leaned forward to hear him better.

"As I had cited the need to acquire a contextual framework, our spy shared with me earlier this week the origins of the espionage agency. Being that it was borne out of the Cohdopian Civil War of 2009 to 2012. von Karma-dono's email and its attachments pertain to that time period."

He motioned at Ema to get up and approach his desk. He had brought up Hawthorn's investigation notes on the computer screen. "The email detailed a case concerning a smuggling ring from a decade ago. The Allebahstian ambassador to the United States, a Quercus Alba, was convicted of first degree murder and trafficking of illegal goods. It was a ring heavily based around the Allebahstian diplomatic and political circles, that had facilitated a counterfeit money-laundering scheme in Zheng Fa.

"As far as the literature is concerned," Simon gestured towards the books on the cabinet. "Borginia was a diplomatic ally to Allebahst following the disintegration of the unified state. It is implied that Borginian intelligence services, as an ally of Allebahst at that time, were aiding and abetting in the trafficking of illegal goods.

"It is still an ongoing investigation, albeit on a much smaller scale, but it was an area the deceased was working on as well. The reason being, post-reunification, after the dismantling of Allebahstian side of SEIL, Borginian oligarchs may have begun operating their own, insofar as the victim's scribblings are concerned, since his notes mention a case you've worked on, being the Borginian cocoon smuggling case in 2026 with the murder of Romein LeTouse.

"Mind, this is all circumstantial. But it suggests the notion that the Borginians had fingers in many pies with regards to Cohdopia. The appeal was a clear example of that, as you would have seen from the court footage, had you tuned in that morning."

Ema hummed in agreement. Simon watched her. She tapped at the screen.

"Well, you definitely looked into this," she finally said, in an exhausted tone.

"I admit, it is a lot of information to take in." Then Simon furrowed his eyebrows, as though trying to look for the right words. "But...Do not worry yourself, Detective. You have been a great asset to this investigation. Given how hectic these last weeks have been, your investigative work has been far-reaching in the toughest of deadlocks."

Reassured by his words, she gave him a little smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks for that. It's just really stressful sometimes. I've been projecting a lot. It's unprofessional of me."

"Well, rest assured I shall put you in line on any counts of unprofessionalism."

"Okay." she nodded, sitting back down on the sofa and reaching for the now-lukewarm coffee.

"Returning to the subject at hand, if you wish to familiarise yourself further, I can offer my acquired literature," prompted Simon, as he gestured again at the books on the cabinet.

Ema shook her head. "No, thanks. I think I've got a clear idea now."

Simon nodded. "Very well then."

"Yeah...I think we've generally established some sort of motive. Lots of work relating to Borginia, got on their radar, and got silenced."

"Yes, precisely."

"Also, Mr Edgeworth sent me an email - I don't know if you got it - about two other international lawyers found dead in London. May be related, but we can't really speculate." Ema finished her coffee, setting the cup aside. "Anyway, it's under Interpol, so that's not my area."

"No, but it is useful to keep abreast of similar ongoing matters." Simon leaned back in his seat. "Well, since we seem to have sorted out that line on enquiry, what'll be our next course of action?"

"I think you need to continue getting information out of Qvinn, and I'll work on establishing the timeline of the night of Hawthorn's death and his movements before that. We've been so focused on the motive and background really, what with the mess with the Borginians, so I think I'll work on that."

"I am in agreement."

"Okay, well, we'll do that then." she rose from her seat, picking up her bag. She gestured at his desk. "You can keep that binder. I know your office is getting super cramped now with all this, but it'll help to have the second copy with you."

"Ah, yes, thank you."

"If I come up with anything, as usual, I'll call."

"Very well," he nodded. "Have a good rest of your day."

"You too."

The door clicked shut behind her, signalling the return to the standard routine. Simon finished his coffee and went about organising his papers. He printed out Hawthorn's notes, placing them in the ring binder Skye had provided, and set aside any Phantom-related information in its own separate binder. That included interrogation notes, and SEIL investigation notes he'd acquired from von Karma and Hawthorn. Next, in a plastic wallet, he placed his meeting minutes, and any other relevant papers that didn't have a place in the ring binders.

Once he had finished that, it was lunchtime. Another quick bento box from the cafeteria – he really ought to start making his own lunches now – and he tended to his emails. Edgeworth had posted the next week's court docket, and he responded quickly to some new colleagues' questions. Then, he set about writing an email to von Karma.

 _Dear von Karma-dono,_

 _Thank you for the attachments. I have since met with a member of the investigation team to discuss Hawthorn's case. The next course of action will be to establish his whereabouts prior to his death._

 _Enclosed are my latest interrogation notes. I have been attempting to establish a general background for SEIL to gain the suspect's trust and willingness to divulge information about his role. But I'd like to ask for some guidance with regards to other points of discussion to follow aside from SEIL in and of itself._

 _Thank you for your cooperation,_

 _S. Blackquill_

He sent off a couple of other emails after that, before setting his laptop aside and tending to the unfinished paperwork. A couple of hours and another cup of tea, he had finished that and set it aside in his out-tray. He was finally glad to say it had been a productive afternoon, now approaching evening outside. The time on his office clock read twenty-two minutes past five.

One more check of his emails, and then he would go home, have a shower and make some dinner for himself. He deserved a reward for his work today.

Sure enough, when he opened up the inbox, he saw that von Karma had been quick to respond.

 _Dear Simon Blackquill,_

 _Thank you for sharing your interrogation notes. I understand he is being quite accommodating in his responses._

 _To answer your question, some points to consider would be the motives behind the crimes first committed in America in 2020 with his emergence, and from there we can establish a timeline of events._

 _Regards,_

 _Franziska von Karma_

He leaned back in his seat, processing the response. Yes, a timeline of events sounded a suitable place to start in determining the man's origins.

...His origins. Did the man actually want to know of them? The impression the last few meetings had left on him was that the man had seemed perfectly content with breezing through people's lives like a ghost...one mission after another before there was some sort of end to it. Killed in action, perhaps. He didn't know.

What was it he had said at the retrial? That he had no... "self." He was no one. He was nothing but an endless abyss.

In that sense, Simon was no different.

Not one bit different in the way he had breezed through schools, with superficial friendships and rapports with teachers, before moving abroad and repeating the cycle. Then came university...he didn't remember much of it. Aside from, well, perhaps an interesting professor here and there. Then the space centre…

 _I should ask him about the space centre._

Family. He had a family at the space centre. Then he wasn't breezing through life, killing time. He was living, with his sister, in their shared flat. She'd come home late, or sleep over, and they'd make dinner...all of them together, at the dinner table, in a small but cosy flat. There used to be rugs and feature walls, and photos of him and Aura; Aura and Metis; Metis and Athena...and loads more books and interactions, laughter and TV shows marathoned together on cold winter nights.

They had been a family.

A family that he and his sister deserved, after everything that had come to pass in London and New York. What disappointments they were to their parents, he mused. He doubted they thought of them anymore. Some unspoken pact between them to never speak of the two disgraceful children they had brought into the world. Well, they had disowned them after all.

Two... _fucked up_ children.

And as quickly as the presence of family came, it was snatched. Back to breezing through life as it were of his own accord...the crossing of the River Styx so _bloody_ close...and yet so far away again.

He had lived to see the beginning of 2028, watching the fireworks from his balcony. He should've been happy...perhaps felt at least some sort of smidgen of positivity or optimism at the start of a new chapter in his life. Frankly, the whole experience was nothing short of surreal, and it hadn't quite registered to him there and then...the...weight of it all. He was just frustrated by the loud bangs that rattled his bedroom door when midnight struck. He didn't get much sleep that night.

He remembered Athena had called him earlier that night. She had invited him to some...New Years Eve party that the agency was hosting, with what appeared to be half the bloody Prosecutor's Office in tow. Well, no, not half of the office. That would be an exaggeration. Just the eccentric lot of them. He declined, of course. He still declined to attend social functions. It was easier on him.

Someone like Hawthorn would probably have been at home, looking at Borginian documents over dinner, than counting down the start of the New Year. Perhaps, or Hawthorn spent it with family and friends, as is typically the case.

There was no use thinking about it. He swivelled around in his chair. He wanted to get dizzy, and get sick and feel nauseous So that he could expel these painful...and _horrible_ thoughts, and just _leave_. To run away, as he always did. The spinning stopped as the chair settled itself in front of the window.

It had stopped raining a while ago. The silhouettes of a murder of crows flying across the city dotted the light grey skies. He could see the hazy circular outline of the sun as it hid behind the clouds, refusing to come out into the open. The smog acted as a thick layer, coating the city with its grimy pollution, sinking onto the high rise buildings. Los Angeles had cleaned up its act, all things considered, in their efforts to tackle pollution and climate change. Still, the smog remained.

There would be no family for him to return to tonight. And there was nothing he could do about it. His mood had soured. So much for the productive day he'd had.

Well, off home he went.

* * *

Thursday followed in a bit of a monotonous blur for Simon. Wake up, head to the office, and do more investigative digging. Ema hadn't come bearing news, so he didn't bother her. He had a meeting with Edgeworth about his progress, who seemed pleased. Athena tried calling him twice that day, but he left the phone ringing and the messages unanswered.

Today was Friday, which meant it was the second interrogation session of the week. He had waited until late afternoon to make his visit, spending the morning in preparation, gathering the necessary materials for this meeting. He made sure to get some lunch as well. It was already three in the afternoon when he made it into the interrogation room.

"What would you like to ask me today," parroted Qvinn.

Simon comforted himself with the fact that things were much the same here. The same manner of speech, and the same way in which he carelessly threw his documents onto the table, and set up the recording device. One thing was different: he had brought his office laptop with him.

"I would like to ask you about the Cosmos Space Centre," said Simon, pen in hand.

"What about it."

"I'd like to ask why it was of particular interest to Borginia. I was under the impression that Borginia was more concerned with ascertaining Cohdopia's then-current political situation with their reunification only a year old."

A shift in his seat, and his shackled hands sunk down on the table. "If I may remind you."

"Yes?"

"Monday I said that in 2020 I was approached by Cohdopia to supply intelligence after reunification. While I was working with Borginia in this particular matter as a mole, the Cohdopians still had a stake in this matter. Win-win for both sides. Or lose-lose."

"According to my notes, you were caught on Interpol's radar in August 2019 for-"

"September 2019. Zheng Fa," corrected Qvinn. "...I was caught regarding the counterfeit bills. The Allebahstians and Borginians wanted them flushed as soon as possible."

Simon nodded slowly, scribbling on his legal pad.

A smile creeped up Qvinn's lips. "I never was able to correct you back then. It is nice to be able to do that now. Without tazing you." he tilted his head, and furrowed his eyebrows. "Did you enjoy that, by the way."

 _I didn't._ Simon swallowed. "Regardless, you had made your mark there. A voice recording obtained by an informant there was sent back to Interpol. Through appropriate channels, it landed in the hands of Metis Cykes, putting you on the spot to make your move in October 2020,"

"Exactly." Qvinn leaned back in his seat. "There are two things to keep in mind. One, that the intelligence I would get would benefit both countries and two, I needed to protect myself."

"What did this intelligence consist of?"

"Borginia wanted in on the Research and Development programme at Cosmos. The rockets they were building would help for military intelligence on building missiles. The robotics technology would also help them, and the technology sector. Killer robots. Service robots...You name it, they had machinations for it."

He shrugged. "I did not care what they used it for. I was ordered to go in and get the intel on their behalf. Worried about some Cohdopian attack."

"How were you able to get into Cosmos? It was a high-security facility?

"I was an undergraduate student at Stanford doing an internship. Got into the HAT-1 programme." Qvinn leaned back in his seat. "My name was Matthew, and I liked astrophysics. I had black hair and blue eyes. Matthew was well-liked. He was goofy."

He shrugged. "Anyway, the Borginians wanted me to test the capabilities of the HAT-1 rocket."

"So you sabotaged the rocket that Solomon Starbuck was to be on?"

"Yes."

"Whatever for?"

"They wanted to test the capabilities of the rocket as a weapon, so they had me fiddle around with it. That way, they could see what could and couldn't be tampered with. The sabotage threat also provided a distraction, for me to obtain the psych report."

"So, by October 7, you were poised to murder Metis Cykes?"

"Metis Cykes was an unfortunate liability," said Qvinn, inspecting his cuticles. "She was intelligent, no doubt, and that was the risk. I could not risk my identity being revealed."

Simon swallowed. "The footage from the day of the murder is remarkable, in that a good seven minutes have been shaved off."

"Yes. Footage that will never be recovered."

Simon placed his office laptop on the table, and booted it up. He logged in, and accessed the video playback software. "This is the remaining footage that was shown at the trial," he said, turning the laptop so that Qvinn could see it. Only one minute remained. Out came the Phantom, skirting about the hallway. Despite the wound on his hand, and his suspicious nature, he looked calm and collected. "I can only infer you'd become well aware of the centre's layout, thus being able to dodge the security cameras."

"Yes."

"But what was in the seven minutes preceding it?"

Qvinn sat back in his seat. He surveyed Blackquill's face; an unreadable expression had remained steady on his features throughout this interrogation, but...how long could it last?

"In the seven minutes preceding that footage, I engaged Metis Cykes in conversation on the way to her lab from lunch. Student and doctor. There is footage of me as Matthew, the Stanford student. She had a spare moment. Her partner was out of the lab. I took the opportunity." Qvinn crossed his arms. Simons's jaw clenched. "Metis Cykes did not expect it. I threatened her. She did not fight back. I stabbed her. Then moments after, the footage shows Athena Cykes entering the room, as I had been searching for the report.

"The girl attacked me with the utility knife. There is no mark. I wore gloves." He raised a pale hand for Simon to see. There were no blemishes, let alone deep knife wounds. "That is where the footage you see starts. Me emerging from the lab. Anything preceding that would have incriminated the true Matthew from Stanford."

Qvinn shrugged. "I had not found the report, and I had the other issue of my blood on the moon rock. I returned to the scene to dump the jacket. The rest is history."

He laced his hands together. "It is nothing personal. The service says that threats must be eliminated. It was a mission I had to conduct. If it did not succeed, then plan B would proceed."

Simon frowned. "Could you elaborate further on the subsequent plan?"

"If I had not managed to obtain the psychological profile, then I would have to take on a new identity and infiltrate to retrieve it. That is where you come in. They said that was the simplest option. Pose as a detective, one who does not raise too many questions, who focuses on rehabilitation over incarceration. That way, I get to Simon Blackquill. I build a rapport with him. I get the profile."

 _He's certainly thought far ahead._ Simon nodded slowly. "And the rocket?" he asked.

"It survived, and the moon rock sent into space. The Borginians brought me back after that. They had ruled the mission a failure officially. I was confined to desk work for a year. Unofficially, it was a success, because I had tapped into the communication system at Cosmos."

Qvinn leaned forward. "It is a shame about Dr Metis Cykes' death."

Simon ignored his last statement. His mouth was dry. He swallowed. "Inform me of your second visit to Cosmos, which resulted in the HAT-2 sabotage and the murder of Clay Terran."

"Because of the communication system in place, I learnt that Director Cosmos was trialling a HAT-2 programme, with the intention of bringing back the Hope probe. They put me in the field in 2026 with the plan B: search and destroy any evidence that revealed my identity."

"Ergo, the moon rock encapsulated within the Hope probe and the psychological profile?"

"Yes." he shrugged. "It was a necessary mission. Posing as Bobby Fulbright meant I could access the necessary files." He tilted his head, scrutinising Simon's face. "You never were forthcoming with information, were you."

Simon's leg bounced. He chose not to respond. Qvinn dropped the matter. He had retreated back into being the salt-pillar-man.

"The threat was sent to the director, and with that I could infiltrate the space centre. The plan, like last time would be to set up the bombs as a distraction and sabotage the rocket, in order to search for the moon rock located in the Hope probe. I had been placed on security detail as Bobby Fulbright. After the first two bombs went off, and the astronauts were evacuated, I was made aware of the fact that they had the Hope capsule on them."

Qvinn looked down, inspecting his cuticles. "As with Metis Cykes, Clay Terran's death was an unfortunate necessity. I could not risk any witnesses, even if unconscious."

He looked up again. "However, I had to abandon retrieving the Hope capsule. The director had his own plans to sabotage my mission by distracting me and switching the launchpads. I would have to plot my escape quickly, by jumping to the emergency ladder I had put up earlier."

Simon interjected. "If you would recall, it was mentioned in court that one would have to suppress their fears in order to make that jump. Wright-dono concluded from that then that one would have no fear, and ergo it would be the Phantom."

Qvinn nodded. "There was no question of fear. It was necessity, to do what needed to be done. Protection."

"After the event, I fled the centre, to return again later once the murder had been called in. The police confiscated the undetonated bomb and the Hope capsule, to be used as evidence in the Starbuck trial. From there, I posed as a bailiff and stole the remote-controlled detonator while the bomb-disposal guy and the detective were arguing. It was detonated with the intention of removing any traces of the moon rock from the capsule."

He shrugged. "The rest is history. Confrontation in court. The masks. The sniper. The arrest."

There was a moment of silence between them after he had finished speaking. Simon had stopped the tape by then. Qvinn could hear the scratches of ballpoint pen on paper. Eventually, Simon set his pen down, and looked at the man in front of him. He snorted. A smirk played on his lips. "It appears you are a most incompetent 'spy'."

"That is what you think." Qvinn merely smiled. "But did you really suspect me."

 _I don't know if I did or didn't._

Qvinn closed his eyes, rotating his head on the right side for a few seconds, before transferring to the left side. Then he opened his eyes again. "Any other questions."

"No. That was insightful." he swallowed. "That concludes this line of questioning today." The rustling of papers confirmed as much, as they were forcefully shoved into a satchel.

Simon rose to his feet, nodding at the guard on the other side of the panel. He watched as Qvinn's shackled ankles were set loose, as he was escorted out. The pale man stared at him for a moment, jumpsuit far too baggy on him. He was salt-pillar-man again.

"Good weekend, Prosecutor," he said, before disappearing behind the door.

After freshening up in the bathroom before he got out of the prison, Simon decided to walk home for a change. A stupid decision, given that it was raining and there were plenty of affordable public transport options — well, not plenty, given America's public transit infrastructure — to take him back home. Of course he hadn't thought on an umbrella either. But he was going to stick to it. He needed the exercise. At least, that's what he told himself.

Lightning pierced the sky, ripping its sludge-grey apart in white, tearing its fabric apart even for a couple of milliseconds, before disintegrating against the concrete. A thunderous boom followed shortly after. Simon walked slowly, almost deliberately so.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Ragged short breaths filled his lungs, trying in some way to force him to breathe properly. He gritted his teeth and swallowed. The air whistled out of his nose. Another boom, another crack, and another sheet of rain drowned him. The surcoat was sure to be ruined in this weather.

At last, he managed to get into the apartment building, soaked through and dripping wet. His shoe-prints left dirty brown marks on the stairs as he climbed them to the third floor.

He made a beeline for the bedroom once he'd got into the flat. Dinner could wait. Methodically, he peeled off his clothes, discarding them with such perfect carelessness. Then came his underwear and socks. His feet were cold. He walked to the bathroom.

One look at the mirror confirmed his thoughts of the day: _Aura does not need to know about this._

Simon heaved a sigh, leaning over to switch the tap on, letting the cold water run in the shower, before the generator kicked in. After a few moments, steam rose. It stuck to the tiled surfaces like a sheet of cling film. Like cling film he used to use to cover the chocolate puddings he used to make on nights when he was stressed during exam season. The reflection of his exhausted face obscured from his view by the fogged-up steam. Small mercies, he noted, getting into the shower.

The water was lukewarm against his body. The shock of the outside cold from not quite registering the heat. He looked down at himself, as the water ran down his back; his frozen, pale body was almost skeletal in its appearance. It was an anatomical disaster. The veins far too grey, and skin too white, and his ribs jutted out. He leaned against the tiles, sliding down to the ground, hugging his knees against his chest. And then he turned his head, eyes focusing on the patterns in the shower curtain, cheekbone resting against his knee.

By now the water had warmed up to him.

A shaky breath, a gulp, and then...

And then he closed his eyes, letting the water engulf him.

...Just for a minute. Maybe two...he would rest like this.

This would be enough for now.


End file.
